


Iridescence

by raisuki (inthegripofahurricane)



Series: Iridescence [1]
Category: Death Note
Genre: Angst, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Novella, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4214610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthegripofahurricane/pseuds/raisuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a strange thing--to wake up in a place you don't recognise in a city you've never seen; but that's the least of Light Yagami's problems, especially when compared to the prospect of serving the time--and potentially being executed--for a crime he doesn't remember committing. And then there's L.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> This thing has really, _really_ been in the works for a while. Seriously, since, like, March. I decided to write the whole thing out before I began publishing--hence why it took ages. That, coupled with beta-ing issues and writer's block. On the bright side, it should update pretty regularly. Thanks to Nilahxapiel for beta-ing this and generally giving their support. I appreciate it. 
> 
> It's a weird fic. I don't really even know if this is coherent.

 

The first thing Light saw was L.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true—the first thing he saw was the floor. When he awoke, his eyes blurring in and out of focus, he stumbled to his feet and his legs immediately gave out. He crashed to the floor with a yelp, and it was then he saw L, wiry and angular, hovering over him with the ghost of a smirk on his face.

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you, Light-kun,” he said dryly. “Your legs aren’t healed yet.”

Light tried to vocalise some kind of retort, but all he managed was an animalistic snarl. His voice was scratchy and rough—obviously from a prolonged lack of usage. L’s face didn’t change, but he opened his mouth to say something. Light wasn’t sure if he ended up saying anything, or if he just didn’t catch it after he drifted swiftly back into unconsciousness.

* * *

 

He woke up once again, unsure whether it had been two hours or two weeks. Light took the opportunity to survey his surroundings.

He was lying in a bed, aware of a dull, throbbing ache in his leg. The walls were completely spotless and white; the room was dominated by the huge, curtainless window Light’s bed stood next to. It looked over a unfamiliar cityscape.

The sky outside was a misty, dusty pink and the sun was beginning peak from behind skyscrapers. From his position, Light had a limited view, but he could see buildings stretched over the horizon, blinking to life as the population began to stir. A few cars buzzed around below, and Light noted distantly that they drove on the right.

He stretched, almost getting to his feet, but was reminded by the soreness on his nose that it wasn’t a good idea.  Even moving hurt—his muscles were burning, even though it was obvious he hadn’t moved in quite some time. And what’s more—he didn’t have a clue where he was.

Or who he was.

His room was airy and pleasant, equipped with a bed, some books and a bathroom opposite his bed (although it didn’t help him in slightest when he was this debilitated.)

He was dressed in a baggy white t-shirt and sweatpants, both a few sizes too big. Light found, after trying to move his fingers, they were near impossible to move and throbbed whenever he tried to utilise them. Probably broken.

Just craning his neck to look around the room had worn him out. His thoughts were slow and clumsy, and L wasn’t anywhere to be seen, so there wasn’t really much point in being awake. Although sleeping didn’t seem particularly appealing, being awake seemed more exhausting. Rolling over, he closed his eyes, too worn out to bother questioning his alien surroundings.

* * *

****  
  


Light’s sleep pattern was abrupt and unsettled, and whenever he wasn’t asleep, his mind was foggy and slow. He could guess they’d put him on some kind of sedatives—whoever ‘they’ were.

Around a week later, L visited again. Light didn’t realize he’d been waiting.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Light asked him. L sat in the chair next to Light’s bed, a book in hand, his face impassive. He looked drained; his face ashen and his eyes heavy. His black hair looked like a birds’ nest.

“Eventually.” He said, “What do you remember, Light-kun?” He spoke in English, but Light noticed he hadn’t omitted the honorific.

“Not much,” Light admitted. It didn’t occur to him to lie to L, “At least, not from the past few months. I’m a prisoner, I know that.” He frowned, “I’m not quite sure why.”

L nodded, as if he hadn’t really expected anything else.

“I expected you to say that.” L said pensively. He stared off into the distance.

“So, am I?”

“You are what?”

“A prisoner.”

“Yes. That is correct.”

Light wasn’t shocked.

“I’m innocent,” He told L lamely.

L gave him an irritated look, as if he’d just said something deeply offensive.

“You should count yourself lucky that you’re here,” he said bluntly, “instead of rotting in a cell. Or dead.”

“I don’t feel lucky.” Light sniffed, turning his head away. “You’re not very helpful.”

“I’m not here to be helpful.”

Light snorted. Perhaps he should have counted himself fortunate, as L had said, but there was no way he’d ever feel indebted to L.

“You don’t need answers at this moment, Light-kun.” L stood up, picking up his book and looking down his nose at Light distastefully, “At the moment, you need to rest.”

“So you’re just going to leave?”

“Yes.”

“How impolite,” Light said evenly, slumping back against the cushions.

L ignored him, jamming the key into the lock and closing the door behind him without a sparing glance.

* * *

 

After a few weeks, Light had managed to regulate his sleeping pattern somewhat, and read several of the volumes on the shelf. For the first time in awhile, he ached for the presence of his mother. He felt hopelessly lost and out of control. What had even been the last thing he said to her?

Every few days, L would make an appearance. L never visited in regular patterns—sometimes three days in a row, and other times leaving weeks between visits. Light presumed it was a way to throw him off, by putting his internal clock in jeopardy. But Light wouldn’t allow himself to be so easily fooled. He knew better than to bother with head games with the world’s greatest detective, especially now.

 

L was Light’s only source of information on the outside world. L could tell him whatever he wanted, how he wanted, and only when he felt like it. Light wasn’t stupid enough to believe everything L told him, either.So he was careful—self-reliant as far as he could be.

Food came from Watari. He served Light meagre meals three times a day (Light didn’t complain about the small meals; he could hardly keep those down).

He was beginning to be able to use his feet again—awkward and painful as his movements were. Relying on L and Watari so absolutely was humiliating—and Light cherished being able to get around his room on his own, even if it took twice as long as it should have and his muscles  were burning by the end.

He’d asked L what happened to his legs several times, but L would always answer with the same vague, not-answer he gave Light in response to every question.

* * *

****  
  


“We’re in China.” Light announced one day. It was mid-morning, and L was sat next to him, a thick book in his hands, both of them in comfortable silence. His voice was self-satisfied, delighted by the glint of confusion in L’s eyes.

“And how do you know that?” L asked.

“Well, I saw the cars drove on the right, which eliminated Japan and the UK, which, considering our respective nationalities, would have been a likely option, but that still left the majority of the world. I didn’t have any landmarks to work with, since you’ve obviously picked a less distinctive part of the city—and there weren’t any landmarks that could give me a clue. People below, from what I can see, virtually all have dark hair, which indicated we were most likely in Asia, South America, or Africa. The climate didn’t look South American or African, but what gave it away was being the green buses, which are common in China and Korea. I made an educated guess—and well, I guess you confirmed that for me.”

L scowled at him. It was the first time such an expression had crossed his face that Light could remember, and Light couldn’t help but well up with satisfaction at chipping at the man’s mask of apathy. It was short lived, though, as the expression quickly disappeared.

“Do you have any idea of what the city could be?” L said, his voice edged with smugness.

“…No…” Light said, his pride deflating slightly.

“It’s still impressive,” L noted, “I didn’t expect you to be able to get the answer out of me. I underestimated you,” he paused, looking down awkwardly “and overestimated myself, apparently.”

“Huh. And I was under the impression you thought I was an idiot.”

“I never thought you were an idiot, Light-kun.” L said quietly, “If I did, I wouldn’t suspect you of being Kira.”

“I’m not Kira,” Light said weakly, “Let me go, Ryuzaki, please.”

L watched him thoughtfully, breathing heavily. He leaned forward, a strand of hair brushing against Light’s jaw.

“I want to believe you,” he murmured.

Light could have laughed.

“Liar.” He murmured back.

Light thought he felt L smile.

****  
  


* * *

Playing board games became their default pastime. Chess was the obvious—if somewhat clichéd—option. L would win half the time, (generally by leading Light into a position in which he was almost certain to win, and then pouncing.) and Light the rest (zigzagging between safe, obvious moves, and one’s that L could never have guessed. He was particularly fond of Zwischenzug-esque moves.)

But they’d play anything—poker, Clue, monopoly, hell, they even played Operation once or twice. It was a way of channelling what they did best—sparring, in a non-physical or verbal way—one that was fuelled purely by intellect.

“You always play white, don’t you?” L said one day. They normally played in silence, save a few comments here and there.

Light looked up, shrugging. Going first was statistically proven to give the player an advantage—and in chess, small things couldn’t always be overridden.

“He who strikes first wins.”

* * *

“Why are we here?” Light whispered, over the cards in his hands one morning, “Will I be here forever?”

“No,” L said, “you’re here because I need to be. You’ll be wherever I happened to be, and that won’t change anywhere soon.”

Light stared out the window.

“I’m innocent,” he insisted. His voice sounded pathetic, but it was all he could do. His memories of the Kira investigation were irreparably hazy, but he remembered fate seeming to bend over backwards to make sure he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A hopeful part of him prayed that one of these days, someone would come and collect him, explaining to him there had been a horrible mistake. Then he’d be taken home, to Japan, and things would be exactly how they used to be.

“What are you doing here?” He asked L bitterly, “Don’t you have better things to do than hover over my shoulder?”

“A case,” L said easily. Light had expected him to remain quiet—like he did so often—but apparently, he was in a sharing mood, “a murder.”

“Are you going to tell me about it?” Light put down his cards, reclining in his chair.

“Probably not.”

“Why? What am I going to do?”

L seemed to consider his words. After a pause, he began to speak.

“Have you ever studied attention-seeking killers, Light-kun?”

“I’ve done some of my own research, yes.” He leaned back, his hand finding the back of his neck. “They are driven by the need to be acknowledged—feared even. It’s not the killing itself, it’s the recognition they receive for doing so,” Light’s words were monotonous, as if reciting something tedious. He cleared his throat, “David Berkowitz—or ‘The Son Of Sam’ for example—six wounded and seven dead. He didn’t care whether it was fame or infamy, he wanted people to be scared of him. He confessed after a while, when attention drifted elsewhere. Just to let people know he committed the crimes. He got off on the cameras, the newspaper articles and media attention. Not the actual killing.”

L nodded. “That is what I expect is the case here….” He continued, “attention seeking killers like himself burn out naturally. It’s simply a matter of time.”

L reminded him a little of a teacher—intellectual, capable of interesting conversation, but condescending nonetheless. He could, and wanted to, have argued. He could have talked about how, surely, if L were capable of finding out the answer, he wouldn’t be lazy about things and let the criminal do his job for him. But he was tired, and too used to knowing the outcome of arguing with L. He couldn’t be bothered with it anymore.

“Stop scowling so much,” L said scoldingly after a few moments, Light didn’t like it—it felt too much like L felt he was entitled to tell Light what not to do with his face. But nonetheless, the frown Light hadn’t even realised he was wearing disappeared.

* * *

Days were all similarly hazy and quiet, each night and morning bleeding into one another. Light’s sleeping schedule was—to put it mildly—disturbed. Sometimes he woke in the middle of the day only to go back to sleep a couple of hours later, other days he’d stay awake for 48 hours straight. No substantial amount of effort seemed to change that.

Waking hours consisted of flicking through L’s past cases (which L had now allowed him access to; all the names and locations altered, of course) or making his way through the hefty volumes of the bookshelf across from his bed. He’d never been a big reader, simply trudging through classics when it was necessary for school. He found most books to be invariably sentimental and predictable.

Light’s legs had almost completely healed with the help of physiotherapy L had helpfully supplied. It was of little use, though; he only really used his legs to pace around the room and go to the bathroom. His door was unsurprisingly locked—so there was no question of going outside.

It had been a Saturday evening when he decided to use the bath for the first time. Previously, he’d always elected to use the shower, something inexplicably repulsive keeping him away from the bath. But today, he was tired, and the idea of reclining in hot water seemed relaxing.

Taking off his clothes everyday seemed to re-establish his theory that he had been tortured at some point. If the scars littering his arms and legs weren’t informative enough, his sallow skin, skeletal limbs, troubled dreams and irregular sleeping pattern surely were.

He was almost certain that was the piece he was missing. Since he’d woken up, all those weeks ago, there’d been a gap in his memories. He vaguely recalled a confrontation with Higuchi, but it seemed to halt there. The only clues he had were the fragmented visions in his dreams—of scalpels and fists and dirty basements. Who it had been he wasn’t so sure about.

The thoughts were crossing his mind as he stared numbly at water rushing into the tub. The water was a tad hot—but Light hardly noticed—submerging his body in the water, eyes flitting to the ceiling.

He lost track of time. But as L told him an hour later, after dragging him out of the tub, soaking wet and shaking, he’d been on the verge of drowning.

“You could have died,” L murmured, pacing up and down, as Light sat on the bed, a towel wrapped around his thin shoulders, “You’re supposed to be a genius. Surely you’re not stupid enough to fall asleep in water.”

“I lost track of time,” Light replied distantly. He’d been so sure he’d only been in there for a matter of minutes, but his ragged, panicked breaths and L’s obvious fear said otherwise.

It was the first time Light had truly seen L agitated. He’d seen him vaguely pissed, but that vanished almost as quickly as it came. Light supposed L was worried—but L feeling worry, especially towards him, felt hard to comprehend. L and worry just didn’t go together.

Light looked up to see L watching him warily. He’d stopped talking now—and all of a sudden, Light felt self-conscious.

“What?”

“Nothing.” L said quickly, his eyes darting everywhere but Light. Light suddenly became conscious of the fact he was still only in a towel.

L appeared to want something from Light, and he presumed that was why he was still hanging around.

“I’m sorry,” he told L. It seemed like the right thing to say.

L only stared in response, his black eyes undecipherable as the day Light had met him.

Whenever he was around L couldn’t escape the feeling of being out of his comfort zone; knowing his every last micro movement would be analysed and potentially held against him. Everything L said was encrypted then encrypted again, his every last movement calculated, his intelligence overwhelming and understated at the same time. His presence, as much as he tried to downplay his own arrogance (Light knew he did, he recognised the trait in himself) his presence, by nature, was all-encompassing. He was brilliantly frustrating and impossible—and the best person Light had ever met.

* * *

That night, Light sat in bed, trying to get to sleep but completely unable to. He was still shivering slightly. He remembered learning in school that shivering was involuntary muscle spasms to generate heat—but he wasn’t cold now, so why couldn’t he stop?

The feeling was only coming to him then, but something about the bath had felt indescribably familiar. His dreams had been elusive and not particularly telling, but he had a resounding feeling that someone had tried to drown him before. He writhed beneath the duvet, the sheets contorting with him.

Maybe his fear of drowning had been what had taken him over—making him black out or causing some kind of flashback. What seemed more bizarre had been L’s concern upon finding him—L hadn’t given the impression he particularly cared for him—just that catering to him was some tedious task that had to be dealt with just like everything else. From the moment he’d woken up all those weeks ago—an unrelenting feeling had followed him. The fear that he was living on borrowed time.

* * *

The first person Light saw from the outside other than Watari and L was Mello.

When L had introduced him as his ‘protégée’—a suitably ambiguous term—Light had been surprised that someone like Mello had been who he presented. He had expected anyone who L decided to spend time on to be truly extraordinary. And Mello was extraordinary—just not in the way Light had anticipated.

Mello was five and a half feet of tightly fitted leather and thinly veiled contempt. Light imagined that he was someone who he’d cross to the other side of the street if he met in real life for fear of being mugged at knifepoint. He looked like he belonged in a juvenile rehabilitation centre—not the back pocket of someone as esteemed as L.

Mello regarded him disdainfully, as if he was a particularly sticky wad of gum that had lodged himself into his designer boots and couldn’t be removed no matter how much he scraped it against the floor.

“Why is he here?” Light questioned, making sure to exclusively address L.

“I invited him. I wanted him to meet you.” L said, his voice modulated.

“Why?” Light snapped, “I’m not an animal in a zoo!”

Mello snorted in apparent disagreement. Light chose to ignore him.

“He needs practise analysing people like yourself.” L told him carefully.

“People like me?” Light smiled humorlessly, “Criminals?”

“If you want to be so blunt, yes.”

“Well, I won’t be much of a help then, since I’m not a criminal.”

“Are you still on that?” Mello mocked. Light chose to ignore him once again.

L’s eyes flitted between the two of them. There was something behind his eyes Light couldn’t quite identify—but that was hardly a new impression. Every single one of L’s mannerisms and micro-expressions seemed to have been designed in order to confuse him.

After L had left, a pile of papers in his thin arms and a wary look on his face, Mello turned to Light, his face contorting into an ugly scowl.

“He’s different now,” he said flatly, in clear reference to L,“ever since he started taking care of you.”

Light hated Mello’s wording; it made him sound like a dependent child. He returned his glare.

“It was his decision, not mine.”

“I don’t like you.” Mello said flatly.

“Really? I never picked that up.”

Mello’s lip curled, and he began to wander around the room, eventually choosing to slump into the armchair nearest the window.

In answer to asking Mello’s age, L had answered a vague ‘mid teens’—which Light found hard to believe. To Light, the kid looked more like a seventh-grader going through his Goth phase. His blond hair was cut choppily around his ears—exaggerating his babyish face. Light doubted it was on purpose.

“Are you going to ask me any questions?” he asked gruffly after a long pause.

Mello sighed heavily, withdrawing something from the pocket of his coat. From what Light could see—it was a small reporter’s notebook.

“How would you describe your relationship with L?” Mello said, his words sagging with boredom. He sounded like he was reading out of a textbook. Light wondered if L had specifically told Mello which questions to ask in hope of getting the reaction he wanted.

He frowned, suddenly very interested in his hands. What was his relationship with L? Light hardly knew who L was, besides the fact that he knew he believed him to be a serial killer.

“Oh, I don’t know. What do you want me to say? Enemy? Rival? Superior? _Lover?_ ”

Mello’s eyes widened suddenly and he scrunched up his nose. “Lover?” He repeated disbelievingly.

Light’s ears quickly went red, “It was a joke,” he said hurriedly, turning away, “have you ever heard of sarcasm?”

“I wouldn’t joke too much if I were you.”

Light laughed hollowly, “Are you trying to scare me? Because it’s not working.”

“I’d love to punch that smirk off your face, but sadly L wouldn’t be too happy, so it’s honestly in my best interest to stay on his good side, and not throttle your skinny little neck yet.”

“Yet?”

“There’s still plenty of time for you to fuck up. And all my bets are on you being out of L’s good books in a matter of months.”

Light walked over, kneeling down by the chair so he was at Mello’s height. He leaned in, fighting the urge to wince in pain, so that their faces were just inches apart. He smiled playfully, relishing Mello’s obvious discomfort.

“And what would happen then?” He whispered.

“We’d kill you, if you were lucky. If you were less lucky, we’d have to throw you back into the hellhole we found you, and whilst I’d be more than happy to accommodate, like I said, I don’t think L would be too happy.”

 

“But that won’t happen,” Light assured, “because I’m innocent.”

“You’re still on that? Can’t you just fucking accept what you did?”

“I didn’t do anything, so, no.”

“L’s never wrong.”

“Neither am I. I don’t really understand why he thinks he has enough evidence to keep me here.” Light gestured around him.

“He has good reasons to.” Mello’s voice groped, unsuccessfully, for an authoritative tone. Light resisted the urge to snort.

Neither of them spoke, and Light’s eyes drifted to the window. The window was easily the best feature of his bare, depressingly tidy bedroom (or prison cell, as it was more appropriately called.)

It stared over the grey, congested city, the sickly light making the room appear bigger than it was. It was getting dark outside; the slim curve of the moon was just visible through dense cloud. A rarity—really—the city was so polluted light barely managed to trickle through.

He had almost forgotten about Mello, whose thin frame had drifted over to the doorway, watching Light reproachfully.

“It’s baffling to me,” Mello said slowly, “that he bothers to keep you alive.”

“It’s baffling to me too.”

Light looked over his shoulder, meeting Mello’s gaze dead on. He chuckled darkly.

“You know what else is baffling?” He drawled, taking steps towards Mello, whose entire body tensed. Not as brave as he liked to pretend, Light thought.

“What?”

“The fact that you seem to be under the impression he’s too good for me.”

“That’s not an impression,” Mello scowled, “that’s the truth.”

“Really? Then why is he keeping me here? I’m innocent.” He laughed raggedly, “I’m _innocent_. And I’m not crazy, either. I _know_ I’m innocent.”

“He’s keeping you here because you’re dangerous. And the sooner you accept that, the better.”

“Dangerous?” Light rung his hands, “Everyone keeps saying that. Why they seem to think I am, I have no idea.”

Light didn’t want to speak to Mello. He didn’t want to speak to L, either--he didn’t want to speak to anyone. With L, Light could kid himself into forgetting about the mistake that had somehow landed him here. With Mello, it was near impossible. He was tired--and all he wanted to do was sleep and forget about all of this.

“I pity you, Mello.” He continued, “It’s amazing how you genuinely believe L’s some kind of innocent saint.”

“I don’t think that,” Mello snapped, “I’m not an idiot. But he’s ten times the person you’ll ever be.”

“Fine. As long as you’re aware that your idol is as destructive as he is.”

Mello licked his lips. His gaze settled on somewhere in the middle distance. His look was trance-like.

“If L’s destructive, then he’s a volcano.”

“What?”

“A volcano. A dormant one, though. Sure, it’ll erupt one day, maybe never if you’re lucky, but if you’re close enough, it’s hugely prosperous.” He continued wistfully.

“Your analogies are shit. Try sticking to detective work.”

“Stop being so condescending. You’re only a few years older than me. And you’re not doing a very good job of selling yourself. L warned me that you charm and manipulate everyone you meet. Am I special?”

“Just the opposite. You’re not important enough to bother charming.” He quipped, “I find it funny that you were sent here to talk about me, but ended up steering the conversation to L. Got a crush?”

Mello’s ears went pink.

“I don’t know why I bothered agreeing to this,” Mello spat, “I’m leaving.”

Light didn’t watch Mello, simply turning back to stare at the window, but heard the familiar rattling of a key in a lock, and the door slamming behind him.

________________________________________

Light flicked through L’s old cases like most people would crosswords in the morning; leaning on his arm, fingers grazing the side of his cup of coffee. L sat across him on his laptop, ten or so doughnuts piled on his plate. It was almost domestic, Light thought, in a nauseating sort of way.

They were leaving China soon. Light felt vaguely disappointed in himself for not figuring out their location more precisely before they left—L almost seemed like he was waiting for him to. He’d felt disappointed in himself for that too—but then immediately reminded himself that he didn’t give a damn about what L thought.

Light supposed L had wrapped up—or was in the process of wrapping up his case. He hadn’t bothered telling Light how it went, so Light guessed that he’d have to ask for himself. He knew the answer, L solved all his cases, and caught unintelligent psychopaths like that before he had his first cup of coffee in the morning, but it was still worth asking. It wasn’t like he had anything to do, and whilst L’s conversation wasn’t always the most uplifting, Light could use some mental stimulation.

“You said we’re leaving soon,” Light started casually.

L nodded, not looking up from his computer.

“So…. you finished the case then?” Light prompted.

“Yes.” L replied flatly, not elaborating like Light had hoped.

“Are you not going to tell me about it?”

L grit his teeth and ignored him.

“Oh, come on, L. I sit up here all day. I have no idea what’s going on in the world, give me a break, will you?” his eyes dropped distastefully to the papers gathered in his hands, “These are boring. I’ll go mad if you keep me up here.”

“Well, start growing your hair then, Rapunzel.”

“Just tell me about the damn case, or I’ll be forced throw a bucket of water on you.”

L snorted, “That’s a different story, ” He paused. “Different witch, too.”

“Stop avoiding the question.”

“It was just as I expected. Some psychopathic, attention-starved nobody,” L said sourly. He sounded disappointed, which grated Light. He wondered how Mello could be so blind to his true nature—L wasn’t the epitome of justice—he was just looking to kill boredom.

So why is he spending so much time with me?

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“It’s as you expected. You find that boring, don’t you?”

“No.”

“You’re lying. I can tell because I know I’m like that too.”

His words felt like an admission—and they were.

L looked up. His eyes were a strange color—he was the only person Light could name with absolutely no flecks of brown or green in his dark irises. They seemed to suck in light instead of reflect it. He watched him carefully, before his spidery fingers went back to tapping away at the keyboard.

“I’ll give you the case file if you really want it,” he said briskly, “I’ll censor a few things here and there, but if you feel the need to read it, I don’t see the harm.”

“Don’t speak to me like that,” he muttered, hating the paternal note in L’s voice, “it’s patronizing.”

“I’ll speak to you anyway I want.” L returned, lifting an eyebrow.

“Where are we going after we leave?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

Light tapped his fingers on the surface of the table, attempting to scrutinize L’s expression, but it was impassive and unrevealing as always.

“How will we get there?” he demanded—desperate for something other than L’s obtrusive, vague answers. He hated the way L seemed to be able to have absolute control over the way they spoke—to swerve the conversation in a way he wanted and prevent topics he chose to avoid. Light had once prided himself on the same ability, but as soon as someone else was given the upper hand, it was infuriating.

“We’ll probably drug you, I imagine.” L said. Light was taken aback, but then surprised at himself for really expecting anything else. He huffed, returning to his coffee, ignoring when the liquid burned his tongue raw.

“I’m tired,” Light announced, after chugging back the remainder of his cup. He gave L a final fleeting glance, which was, as always, ignored.

“You are?” L said coolly, “You just got up.”

“I don’t feel well.”

“What are your symptoms?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Light said brusquely. L didn’t look offended, his eyes blank, just like the well-trained little robot boy he was. Light wanted nothing more than to reach over and constrict L’s thin throat in his fingertips and watch as the life drained out of him.

“Feel better soon,” L called after him as he left, his voice lacking any trace of sincerity.

 

* * *

 

Light slumped onto his bed and felt around for the copy of Orwell’s _1984_ on the side of his bed. He’d already read it in Japanese for school, and had found a copy on the shelf in English. His English was pretty good as it was, but it wasn’t like he had much else to do.

The shutters were closed, only a few slithers of early morning light coming through and casting golden strips down his walls. He hardly paid attention to the words, letting them flow through his head without giving them a thought.

Eventually, he drifted into an uneasy sleep. His dreams, at first, were vague and equivocal, kaleidoscopes of memories flashing before his eyes. Eventually his thoughts seemed to settle on a particular location.

He was in his childhood bedroom. His room was bland and tidy, just as he remembered. Light had always held the vague notion that he should have added something to it to make it seem more interesting—but could never decide what he could use. Eventually he’d given up, accepting the place had just about as much personality as he did.

The bed was neatly made, the books stacked in orderly rows, all the pens and stationery neatly kept in their respective compartment. The only thing that held a touch of humanity were the two stuffed toys sitting on the pillows on the bed, and Light was pleased to find evidence of traces of normalcy. A small set of clothes were hung over the chair at the desk, ironed and immaculate. This was obviously not the room of an adolescent, like Light was, but of a child. From what Light could guess—one no older than six. His mind lurched in rememberence at the sight of the stuffed toys—he’d had them since he was a baby, imaginatively called Red and Cat. He wondered where they were now, and then recalled throwing them out when he left middle school.

It was raining outside. Too put it mildly. The trees in the street contorted dramatically in the wind, rain streaking down Light’s window, the faint howling of wind filling his ears. His room was achingly familiar, and Light was flooded with nostalgia .

There was a muffled knock—and a female voice called from behind the door. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but it sound vaguely concerned and definitely maternal.

The howling outside got louder, virtually drowning out the increasingly frantic knocking at the door. Light glanced over, wondering distantly why his mother didn’t just open the damn door.

“Light?”

He could make out his name, almost drowned out by the rain. His mother—or who he presumed to be his mother—sounded panicked now, and was rattling the doorknob. He was screaming at her just to open the damn thing, but nothing was coming out of his—

There were spindly fingers digging into his shoulders, and Light jerked awake.

Someone stood over him, hands still planted on his shoulders. Light could only see an impression of his face in the dark, and from the wide eyes and angular features, he knew it was L. Perhaps it was the dark, but he looked younger, despite the tension in his expression.

“We need to go,” he whispered urgently.

“Why?” Light slurred, “Go where?”

L apparently didn’t hear him, or chose to ignore him, because before Light could gather his thoughts he was being pulled out of his room. He cringed at the sudden change in light, using his hands to shelter his eyes. He stumbled around, falling onto the couch, still half-asleep.

He was still dressed in his pyjamas, and he’d woken with a pounding headache. He felt hot, sick, and exhausted, and most definitely wasn’t in the mood for any of L’s games. His dream had been unusually vivid, and a part of Light was disappointed he woke up.

“Where are we going?” he asked tiredly. His eyes were beginning to adjust to the light, and he could make out L across from him, hands plunged in his pockets.

“We’re leaving China,” he said briskly.

“What? Now? Why? I thought we weren’t leaving for another few days?”

“Change of plans.”

Light head fell into his hands. His forehead was coated in a film of sweat—he was pretty sure he had a temperature.

“You’re not being helpful,” he muttered irritably, “not that you ever are.”

But L was ignoring him, holding up an impatient finger as he punched a number into his cell phone. While it rang, he gave Light a long glare. As if he’d been the one to wake him up with no explanation in the middle of the night.

“You’ll thank me later,” he said. Had he not felt like he was about to keel over, Light would have laughed in indignation.

****  
  


“I don’t feel well,” he told L hoarsely. L threw him an impatient look.

“How unwell?”

“Very unwell.”

“I’ll get Watari to get you some paracetamol or something. Sit there.”

* * *

 

L didn’t look like he was in a hurry to get any sort of remedy, and instead, was pacing up and down the length of the carpet. Light noted dimly that it was the first time he could remember L standing straight. He must have messaged Watari, as a few minutes later the old man had come in, a variety of pills, presumably to ease Light’s headache, on a tray. Light wondered sometimes if he were psychic.

He murmured something to L, his voice low and fast. Their stares flitted over to Light, and L took a step towards him.

“It’s fine,” he said to Watari, his eyes still set on Light. “Just inject it.”

 **  
**“What?” Light managed, before buckling over when Watari lurched forward at alarming speed and jammed something into his neck.


	2. changing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which genius assholes argue more, amongst other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty surprised at how many kudos the first chapter got, I thought it would pretty much drift into the void unnoticed, haha. As always, thank you to Nilahxapiel for beta-ing. I don't own Death Note.

More pain in his head. A few rough, cheap pillows under his head. Another alien room.

 

Light sat up, ignoring the stab of from the back of his skull, and sniffed. He must have caught a cold, presumably from L or Watari, since there was no other way he could have contracted one. It was just his luck.

 

The room around him was dotted with small windows—each no wider than 20 centimetres in diameter, with a few recliners pushed against the sides. L sat across from him, legs drawn up against his chest, tapping away at a laptop balanced precariously on his knees.

 

“We’re on a plane.” Light said dumbly, his head still spinning. Everything in there seemed to be white, white—and it made his head pound.

 

“Well noticed.” L said dryly.

 

“How long do we have left until we land?”

 

L shrugged, returning to his work. Light wasn’t stupid enough to think L actually didn’t know; he  was just choosing to be obtuse—which was perfectly typical.

Outside, curls of pinkish clouds were drifting by, and when Light squinted, he could see they were going over an ocean. They were definitely going on a transcontinental flight then, or at least international.

 

“I’m going to sleep,” Light muttered, suppressing a yawn and settling himself back on the scratchy cushion positioned under his head.

 

“That sounds like a good idea.” L returned, his voice flat. The computer screen hid his eyes, “If you didn’t, you’d end up being sedated anyway.”

 

“I appreciate your honesty.”

 

“I try.”

 

The whirring of L’s laptop—coupled with his rhythmic tapping of the keys—was almost enough to lull Light to sleep, but his head was still searing, and still felt like he was choking on light—even when he closed his eyes.

 

“L,” he called out meekly.

 

“What is it, Light-kun?”

Light rolled over, his eyes flitting lazily over to L.

 

“You’ll let me go, right?” He asked. His voice was hollow and childlike.

 

L didn’t reply for a while, letting the words drift in the air and vaporise.

 

“No,” he said eventually, his voice unusually curt. “Because you’re Kira.”

 

Light pressed the tips of his fingers to his temples, rubbing circles into the skin. He was exhausted—but sleep was tedious and all he wanted was to relieve the pain in his head—and the frustration coursing through his bones.

 

“I’m not.” He insisted feebly. He wondered if L really would sedate him again. He wouldn’t put it past him.

 

There was a flash of guilt on L’s face for a short moment—but it was gone as soon as it came. L looked away hurriedly.

 

“Go to sleep, Light.” He said tiredly.

 

* * *

 

Light’s new room was virtually the same as the old one, apart from the much smaller window. It was depressing; it made the place feel much more stuffy.

 

He’d been told that they were in London. Naturally, he’d been bemused. He was used to being kept in the dark.

 

“Why are you telling me this?” He’d asked Watari.

 

“L sees no need to lie to you.”

 

“He’s never held that particular sentiment before.”

 

Watari didn’t reply. Light got the distinct and potent feeling he didn’t think much of him.

 

L came to visit him after an hour—his hair ruffled and his eyes tired.

 

“Do you feel better?” He asked Light disinterestedly.

 

“A little.”

 

Light was huddled under the pillows, trying to repress the shivers raking through his body. The headache had subsided—but left a hideous cold sweat in its wake.

 

L nodded, plunging his hands into his pockets.

“It may have seemed like I did this just to spite you,” he said quietly, avoiding Light’s gaze. “But that’s not the case. I did it for your safety.”

 

Light snorted into his pillow. “Since when do you give a damn about my safety?”

 

“I care about your safety,” L insisted. He turned away quickly, his eyes narrowing and fixating somewhere on the wall.

 

“What exactly was the threat, then?”

 

“Not everyone would be as nice as me to a mass-murderer, let’s just say.”

 

Light shifted under the blankets, tilting his head up to stare blankly at the ceiling.

 

“I hate you.”

 

It was a stupid thing to say—but somewhat satisfying. L looked over in dim acknowledgement—and rolled his eyes. Light pulled the blanket over his head—obscuring L from his view. He squeezed his eyes shut and curled into a foetal position. He felt more confused than ever, and the jet lag was hardly helping. Impatience was beginning to color his mind, making Light feel like anything he dared to say would come out venomous.

 

“If you need anything… I’ll be here.” L’s soothing voice was muffled by the duvet—and made Light blanch. He’d presumed that L had left.

 

“Okay.”

 

There was silence—the only noise being the ticking of the clock on the bedside. After a moment—Light could hear to creeks in the floor as L walked back out the door, and the click as it shut.

 

* * *

 

Light’s sleep was restless and fitful—filled with the same dream. The images were so disjointed that he could hardly make anything out, apart from the same, low and cruel voice. Nothing was vivid enough to really scare him—but it was repetitive and familiar enough to unsettle him.

 

When consciousness finally became consistent—Light lay sprawled above his sheets, blinking at the ceiling. He hadn’t bothered looking at the clock—but he could guess it was around four in the morning.

 

His headache had more or less disappeared, but Light was still groggy. His thoughts lazily drifted to his life back in Japan. To his surprise—the majority of his nostalgia seemed to have been replaced with dim remembrance.

He didn’t miss much of it—save the freedom to do what he wanted. It made him uneasy. Thinking of his old life made him feel like he was looking into the personal life of a stranger—like watching a film about someone else. With a throaty sigh, he buried his face in pillows, ignoring his restlessness and the heat creeping through his body.

 

* * *

 

 

Light had found a deck of musty cards in one of the draws of the tables, and after a few minutes of absently shuffling through them, started playing solitaire. He’d never really cared for card games, but had found himself craving the distraction. It didn’t involve the concentration or feeling that books or films did—but was enough to keep his mind from wandering elsewhere.

He was pretty sure he couldn’t win this particular game, but was too lazy to deal out some more, so instead fingered through the cards, his mind slow and exhausted. He realized, after a while, that it had gotten dark outside—and the room had turned inky without him realising.

 

Both concentrating and noticing obvious things seemed so much harder nowadays; all his thoughts were groggy and slow. He missed his mind most of all—all it did now was decay.

 

There was a rattling sound, and the door came ajar, yellow light pouring inside. L stood there, his shoulder against the doorframe.

 

“You’re still here,” Light noted distantly, not looking up from his cards, “I thought you’d gone off on one of your wild goose chases.”

 

“My ‘wild goose chases’?”

 

“I thought you’d left me behind,” Light laughed bitterly, “And then I couldn’t figure out why I cared.”

 

Maybe he was woozy from the pills, or maybe it was the sleep deprivation, or perhaps the jet lag, but the words spilled from his mouth without any kind of resistance. His mask of indifference that he did his best to wear in front of L was beginning to fray at the edges—but Light didn’t bother stopping it.

 

“Thanks for knocking, by the way.”

 

L ignored the latter comment. “Do you feel better?’

 

“Not one-hundred percent, but better, yeah.”

 

“I hope that you know I did this for you,” L said. His voice was almost inaudible.

 

“Did what?”

 

“Took you here. I did it to keep you out of danger.”

 

“I know.” Light said coldly, his eyes set on the cards in front of him. “You don’t have to remind me.” He looked up, his eyes searching L’s. “Don’t bother trying to make me feel like I owe you something.”

 

“You don’t? I’m the reason you’re not dead,” L asked. He didn’t sound angry—only mildly amused. “I could have you executed at any moment.”

 

“I’m not Kira. You’re lying to me and you’re trying to hurt me and you know I’m not Kira.” Light couldn’t help the desperation bleeding into his voice. He paused, turning away and sniffing. “That’s fucked up. You’re fucked up.”

 

L took in his words, before laughing humorlessly.

 

“You know,” he said cuttingly “when I first met you, everyone seemed to be under the impression that you were God’s gift to the planet, but I don’t see the appeal.”

 

“Really? I would never have guessed.”

 

“Can’t you see how ungrateful you are? Anyone else would have had you executed.”

 

“No, anyone else would have let me go. Have you ever heard of ‘guilty until proven innocent’?”

 

“You’re _still_ clinging on to that?”

 

Light rarely lost his temper—but that feat was becoming increasingly difficult with such prolonged exposure to L. With a snarl, he lurched forward, managing to pin L to the flaw.

At first, L seemed too shocked to do anything, but after a moment lucidity returned to his eyes and he shoved Light off, blocking the weak punches aimed at his face, but not before Light managed to get his nose once. L stood up quickly, wrestling Light to his feet, restraining his hands between his fingers.

 

“I’m sorry,” He said soothingly, trying to meet Light’s eyes, “I’m sorry, Light.”

 

Light struggled weakly before slumping against L’s shoulder. L stiffened, but didn’t push him off.

 

“I’m sorry,” L repeated, “I got angry.”

 

There had been a time when Light would have been able to hold up in a fight against L—but L had always been skilled and surprisingly strong despite his stature, and Light had relied mostly on his natural athleticism. Now, his limbs were as skeletal as L’s—but without the hidden strength L apparently possessed.

He pulled away from L, avoiding his gaze, and ignoring the stinging sensation behind his eyes.

 

“I didn’t come here to argue.” L’s voice came from behind him. Light gulped in response.

 

“Solitaire?” L continued, his voice strained. “Mind if I finish this?”

 

“I’m pretty sure you can’t.” Light responded, tilting his head to meet L’s eyes.

 

L shrugged, arrogantly eyeing the cards with his finger pressed to his mouth. Light wanted to punch him. Again.

 

“I’m not buying this whole stoic, holier-than-thou attitude, by the way,” he mumbled.

 

L cocked an eyebrow, “Really? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Go away.”

 

“Fine, if you don’t want me here, that’s up to you.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Fine.” L stepped away from the table, arranging the cards in a neat pile and placing them on them corner. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

 

Light frowned.

 

“Or not. Goodnight, then.”

 

“Goodnight, L.” Light grunted, avoiding his eyes.

 

L moved towards the desk and began to tidy the cards away, placing them in a neat pile in the corner of the desk.

 

“I won.” He said evenly, noticing Light’s quizzical look. Light huffed and looked away in irritation.

 

L opened the door and Light turned away—only hearing the slam of the door as it shut.

 

* * *

 

 

Light had no particular desire to talk to L after that, but L, evidently, didn’t share the sentiment. After a few days, L reappeared in the doorway—as always, without knocking.

 

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Light informed him dully when he first caught sight of him.

 

“I’m renting this room. I’ll stay here if I like.”

 

“Fine. But don’t expect me to talk to you.” Light saw no point in arguing with L—it was exactly what he wanted. Light had no desire to indulge him.

 

“That only makes the idea of staying far more appealing.” L said delightedly. Light ignored him, pointedly turning the page of his book.

 

“Would you like to play a game?” L asked. “I came here to do something, Light. I like doing things with you.”

 

“I said I don’t want to talk to you.”

 

“Fine—we’ll play something that doesn’t involve talking.”

 

“I don’t want to look at you, either.”

 

“That can be arranged quite easily.”

 

“Piss off.”

 

“Chess?”

 

Light was quiet—and L apparently took that as a yes. He went over to the desk pushed against the wall, and dug through the drawers, searching for a chessboard. He pulled a dog-eared cardboard box out, which appeared to be a chess set. He dropped it on a table, and looked over expectantly to Light as he took out the pieces in fistfuls and began to arrange them. Grudgingly, Light moved to sit across from him, unsure of what else to do. He ignored L’s triumphant smile.

 

He pushed his pawn forwards, and waited for L to respond. They hadn’t stopped arguing—not really—but they never did. Everything they did was a competition, whether it was verbal, or slamming down chess pieces, or sharing information. And whoever struck first won. The difficult part was, at least for Light, pinpointing exactly when the game had started.

 

Light’s queen took out L’s knight, and Light allowed himself to smirk in self-satisfaction.

 

“I really am sorry, Light.” L said under his breath, just as he swiped Light’s bishop from under his arms.

 

“For the bishop, or for everything?” Light murmured back, “And I thought we had a rule about no talking.”

 

“Both.” He cleared his throat, and Light swore he saw L’s ears tinge pink. “But I’m especially sorry for that fact that I’m beating you in this chess game.”

 

Light snorted. He didn’t know what he expected; it wasn’t as if L could maintain any kind of human sentiment without turning it into something shallow and obnoxious.He didn’t bother responding, since he’d much rather they went back to silence. It was so much more comfortable.

He moved his queen forward, hoping to lure out L’s king, but to his surprise, L didn’t respond in his usual swiftness. Perhaps the other man had been looking elsewhere, and thought that Light was still thinking.

 

“Your move,” he grunted.

 

L still didn’t respond, and with irritation, Light looked up. L’s eyes were set on him—and Light mused to himself that L’s eyes were what gave away his age. The rest of his looked much younger, Light’s age, really. His spidery limbs, paper-thin skin and unkempt hair screamed of adolescence, but his eyes, wide and around as they were, bore no trace of naïveté.

 

“I missed not talking to you, Light.” L said. His voice was soft.

 

“You could have talked to me any time, if you wanted to.”

 

“But you wouldn’t have replied.” L’s brow furrowed, “I hate it when you don’t talk to me.”

 

“No, you don’t,” Light grumbled, “You don’t care about that stuff.”

 

L’s mouth opened slightly—as if he was about to say something—but then closed again. Instead, he pushed his queen forwards.

 

“Finally using your queen?” Light asked, arching an eyebrow. “You normally wait until the end.”

 

“Ignoring your own rule of no talking, are we?”

 

“I made the rules, I’ll do what I like.”

 

L sighed, a smile tugging at his lips. “The situation called for it. I’m an adaptable man.”

 

“Really? You always seemed to be unbelievably stubborn to me.”

 

“Stubbornness and adaptability aren’t antonyms. Being weak-willed is changing when people demand it. Adaptability is changing when the circumstances demand it.”

 

Light rolled his eyes, pushing a piece forwards and leaning back into his chair.

 

L studied the chessboard with a finger pressed to his lips. He eyed Light through thick eyelashes. When the gaze lingered too long—Light looked away impatiently.

 

“Your move.” He grumbled.

 

L’s eyebrow twitched—barely visibly—before his queen took Light’s knight. Light looked down, allowing surprise to cross his features.

 

“I didn’t see that coming.” He admitted.

 

L shrugged. “I’m glad you’re talking to me again.” He said under his breath, almost quietly enough for Light not to hear.

 

“Don’t read too far into it. It’s nothing.”

 

“I know you, Light, and I don’t think it is.”

 

And then L’s lips were on his, chapped and cold but familiar, and his hands had threaded in L’s hair, and really, this was just a continuation of the never ending sparring, as their lips move against one another’s—

 

L pulled away. His gaze dropped to the coffee table.

 

“We knocked over the pieces.” He said mournfully.

 

“The pieces don’t matter,” Light replied impatiently, panting as he spoke. Having L’s mouth pressed to his had brought forth a jolt of euphoria, making him completely lose interest in the game.

 

“I was about to win…”

 

“Can we bring back the no-speaking rule? I liked that rule.”

 

He pulled L’s face towards his, his fingers skimming his neck. They stumbled away from the table, movements clumsy but somehow _right._

Light found himself aware of cushions and pillows behind his head, and of the fact that L’s mouth had attached itself to his neck. L’s hands fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, eager and shaking slightly.

Their movements weren’t the practised, smooth movements of a married couple or the amateur fumbling of inexperienced teenagers. The analogy of long parted lovers, Light decided, seemed to fit best.

 

The sun was setting outside, and other than the lamp they’d switched on in order to play chess, the room was dark. L’s skin was yellow against his, lit only by the meagre glow of a century old light bulb.

 

L was murmuring something against his neck, and it sounded like a prayer—breathy and hurried and private. And he could ignore the slight pain of L’s elbow digging into his thigh, just as he could imagine L could ignore his overgrown nails digging into his scalp, because this seemed to be the way things should be.

 

Light would’ve been lying if he said the whole experience was perfect—because it wasn’t. The first finger had felt strange and intrusive, and even after that there’d always been an underlying pain, but it was pleasant and familiar and oddly liberating.

 

“Does it hurt?” L grunted, his breathing was slightly laboured, and Light could feel the ghost of it against his collarbone. Light could only see his outline, shifting slightly above him, coupled with the sound of flesh on flesh.

 

“It’s fine.” He murmured, a hand reaching up to brush against L’s cheekbone. His skin was slightly damp, and when he pushed forwards, Light could feel him tense as his back arched. The forensic care seemed so novel—so wildly out of character—that it almost distracted Light from the accumulating pleasure. He made a choked noise, digging his nails into L’s back, hard enough for him to be sure that it would draw blood.

 

He stared up at L, his eyes half-lidded. L’s eyes flitted down, and broke into a grin that said he’d eat Light alive.

 

* * *

 

When Light awoke, L was gone. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He turned towards the window, using his hand to block out some of the light that poured through the window, making his eyes water.

He would be surprised if L slept at all—let alone with someone else. The position was far too vulnerable. No—L had probably waited until Light fell asleep and pissed off, to his laptop, or whatever he did when Light wasn’t there.

 

Light rolled over. The area around his hips was undeniably aching, and Light thought dimly that taking a shower would maybe make it better.

 

The shower took a few seconds to run warm, but Light welcomed the coolness—the cold water made him feel refreshed after waking up sweaty and in the aftermath of sex.

 

When he stepped outside, a towel wrapped around his waist, L was sat on the seat in the middle of the room. A plate of brightly colored cupcakes sat next to him, and he was absently-mindedly picking at them whilst his eyes skimmed an ancient looking paperback.

 

“I’m surprised you’re not on that laptop,” Light said. L looked up.

 

“Oh, good morning, Light.” He said flatly.

 

Light walked over to the window and fiddled with the lock. To his surprise, it swung open, letting some fresh air circulate in the otherwise stuffy room. It was a small window—but the slight breeze made Light feel better.

 

“It’s a nice day,” he commented absently, walking over to sit across from L.

 

“Appreciate it,” L replied, “It’s rarely like this in England.”

 

Light’s eyes fell to the paperback in L’s fingers.

 

“What are you reading?” He asked.

 

“ _King Lear_ ,” L said, “Have you read it?”

 

“I started it. I found it a tad harrowing for my taste. It was long, too.”

 

“I’m surprised; I thought it would be your kind of thing.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Exhaustingly long and full of depressing studies of the inherent amorality of man? It’s the only story more melancholic than yours.”

 

“Well, I have a lot of time nowadays,” Light said bitterly, “maybe I’ll give it another go.”

 

L’s eyes followed him behind the book, calculating and careful.

 

“You left in the middle of the night, didn’t you?” Light asked him sourly, “It’s good to see you’re as trusting as ever.”

 

“I know too much about you to ever trust you, Light.”

 

“Right. Okay. Am I supposed to trust you?”

 

L frowned at the pages. “That probably wouldn’t be wise.”

 

“Ha, as I thought. I’m not an idiot—I know that you’ll only tell me what you want me to know. You’re trying to fool me with this sterile and stoic demeanour, you’re trying to manipulate me because you know you’re my only source of information.”

 

L smiled. It possessed no ounce or warmth of affection; but instead the vague amusement of one far more intellectually and emotionally superior. Light wanted to hit him.

 

“I’d noticed you’d been reading Orwell, Light.” He remarked, ignoring Light’s question.

 

“Don’t fucking patronize me, you miserable old man.”

 

“Old man? I’m less than a decade older than you,” L quipped, “I’m not even thirty.”

 

“You might as well be twice your age, for the way you act. You’re cynical and mean and you piss me off.”

 

“Well, then you’re acting half your age. Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?” He sneered, “Do you know what I think? I think that you’re so emotionally constipated that you’re just trying to re-assert your apparent distaste for me after last night,” he raised an eyebrow scathingly, “what was last night exactly, Light?”

 

“The ultimate hatefuck. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He tried to get past L, but L caught his wrist.

 

“Really? You could have fooled me,” L continued, “it’s pathetic, Light. You’re like a ten year old boy pulling the pigtails of the girl he likes.”

 

“Ha, so that’s what you think? In that case, your ego is so wildly out of proportion I feel sorry for you. If you think, that in any way, shape or form, I could ever do anything but hate you, you’re completely delusional.”

 

“Then why do you feel the need to clarify it to such an extent?”

 

“Because that’s all I fucking have!” Light was yelling now, and had taken a step closer to L, who met his gaze dead on. There was no sensuality in the act, no underlying eroticism, just the instinctive rivalry that had somehow managed to boil over.

 

“That’s all I have,” he repeated, more to himself than to L. Light’s voice had softened slightly, but without any kind of declination in defiance. “Because you have taken everything. I barely know what’s going on, and yet you have the nerve to patronize me and act like I don’t have the right to know!”

 

That was all there was to it. Light could never bring himself to submit to someone who he knew lied to him, or someone who had that much power over him. So here he was, clinging pathetically to his pride like a raft in a storm.

 

“Fuck you.” He finished, turning briskly away.

 

It was petty, but Light couldn’t bring himself to care. With a heavy sigh, he began to pick his clothes up from the floor. He made the bed too, peeling the sheets off and piling them in the corner, and tossed the clothes there too, all the time ignoring L’s glare on his back.

 

“Can you go away, please?” His voice was strained.

 

“Why?”

 

“I want to get dressed. Is that too much to ask?”

 

L stood up, his copy of _King Lear_ still in his hands. With a final, slightly mournful look, he left the room. Light hated that look—especially the way it had the nerve to make Light feel a twinge of guilt.

 

He supposed he liked this room more than the last. It was far stuffier and quite a bit smaller—but something about China had felt intimidating and alienating. The feeling hadn’t completely gone away here either—the unease followed Light everywhere—but at least here, it felt as if it had subsided.

His eyes drifted to the window. It was pathetic, really, compared to the last one. It was just above Light’s line of vision, and even if he stood on a chair and looked outside, all he saw were the backs of buildings. Nothing compared to the view in China.

 

Old cases were scattered on the desk, presumably for Light to flick through. He’d looked through them before, but bothering to decipher them seemed so pointless. They’d all been solved already, and what was the point in playing a detective if it were never to be put to use?

 

With a sigh, he collapsed onto the bed, willing himself to fall asleep again.

 

* * *

 

_In a way, Light was pleased for all the grime and dirt surrounding him. He didn’t like it, he’d always hated dirt, and he still hated it now—the wall he was slumped against was filthy, and he could practically feel germs and insects crawling across the stretches of his skin, burrowing into pores and eating away at the surface. He shuddered._

_The fear was irrational but hardly new—he’d always held a high standard of cleanliness. Besides, judging from the bruises blooming on his sides and the swelling on the side of his face, dirt was the least of his problems._

 

_But the dirt was comforting because it held the promise of poverty, unprofessionalism and being on the other side of the law. Had the walls been plain white—Light wouldn’t have stood a chance. If you could afford spotless white walls and clean hospital beds you could afford elaborate security and sharper scalpels, and there was a good chance the law would on your side, or at least inclined to let it slide._

_The room was around four metres long and a metre and a half wide. The floor was probably a dark grey, beneath the layers of grime and dust. The walls had had the wallpaper peeled off, revealing sparse, nail-ridden planes._

_All that being said, Light supposed his chances were still small. But still there, he supposed, if he was being idealistic._

 

_There was a clock over the door. For all the time he’d been here—it had been stuck on four, leaving Light no way of knowing how long he’d been awake._

 

_They came in at four and they left at four—the clock had to be broken._

 

_A rattling in the doorway jolted Light out of his thoughts, and his head snapped up. He pressed his back into the wall as it came ajar and several men poured in; tall and muscular and covered in tattoos._

 

_“Good morning, sunshine.” One of them said with a grin._

 

Light’s eyes snapped open. The first thing he registered was that there was a clock—a digital clock—by his bed. Not one with a face. It said 3:31am. He allowed himself to exhale—he was safe. More or less.

 

“Are you okay?” L’s voice came from the other side of the room. He sounded cautious—just like always. He must have come in here to work whilst Light had been asleep.

 

“Uh, yeah.” His eyes remained fixed on L. L was standing up now, and his face was close—close enough that Light could lean forward and kiss him—if he wanted to.

 

He flopped back down and turned over, making the sheets shift. Inwardly, Light was surprised L was still here. Normally, L disappeared after they fucked, dropping back in when he felt like it.

 

“You’re here.” Light said distantly, his voice hoarse from sleep.

 

“Well observed,” came L’s response. “Go to sleep.”

 

“We should fuck.”

 

“It’s three thirty in the morning, Light. Go to sleep.”

 

“I’m not tired.”

 

“Well, I am. Aren’t you always telling me to get more sleep?” L shifted again.

 

“Sleep here.” Light said. L snorted in response.

“Why do you suddenly feel like sleeping with me, exactly? For the past week you’ve been ignoring me.”

 

Light rolled his eyes, “Because I’ve made it my life’s work to be an inconvenience to you.”

 

“Well,” L muttered darkly, his face obscured “You’ve done a damn good job.”

 

Light retreated into silence. He remained sitting up, eyes round and fastened on L. L shifted to look at him, and seemed to realize what he had said.

 

“God, Light.” He sighed heavily, “You know I didn’t mean that.”

 

“Didn’t you?”

****  
  


“I’m sorry. It just came out.” His voice was uncharacteristically tender and careful, which all but assured Light he was being insincere.

 

“It’s probably true enough,” Light said after a few seconds, attempting in vain to keep his voice level. He turned away from L at that, pulling the covers up to his chin. “Especially now. You have to hang around here babysitting me.”

 

“I don’t mind,” L whispered. He kneeled by the bed, burying his face in Light’s neck.

 

“Yes, you do.”

 

“The ups outweigh the downs.”

 

“I find that hard to believe.”

 

There were fingers on the back of his neck, slipping under the neck of his shirt and running down his spine. Perhaps it was supposed to be soothing. Light suppressed a shiver.

 

“It’s not.”

 

“Ha,” he replied, his voice dry as paper, “I never believe a word you say.”

 

The fingers disappeared, and L retracted his arm. Light fell back into the pillows.

 

“Probably with good reason. Although,” L paused, “I could say the same of you.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“I get the feeling we’ve had this conversation before.”

 

“We have?” Light laughed. “You’ll have to remind me. My memory is getting worse and worse nowadays.”

 

“I’m going to sleep now.”

 

“I haven’t withdrawn the sex offer, you still have the opportunity, I wouldn’t waste it. Do you realise how many people would kill to be in your position?”

 

“Sounds fun,” L said wryly.

 

“It will be. You can be on top. Not physically, if you don’t want to. In fact, you can just sit there.”

 

L huffed.

 

“Ok, fine. Go to bed. You’re missing a prime opportunity, though.”

 

L didn’t respond, throwing him a last glance before Light rolled over with a defeated sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I'd really appreciate kudos/comments if you enjoyed. Tell me what you liked. Tell me what you hated. I don't care.


	3. fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some alright things happen, one bad thing happens and one terrible thing happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Hey!
> 
> Thank you to anyone who is still reading this. I'd also like to give a huge huge huge thank you to any of the people who jumped to my defence in the comments, I appreciate it more than you can imagine. I don't own Death Note.

Harry Smith worked at the bank. He had two children and a wife; his daughter was seven, his son two, and his wife thirty-five—three years younger than himself. She was a housewife—not too bright—but most people saw her as a rather amiable and good-hearted person. Her husband, however, was intelligent. He had a high status in his workplace—and was always applauded for doing a thorough job. They lived in a medium sized house in the Californian Suburbs with a white picket fence around and a green lawn. They were the picture of an all-American family—as far as most people knew.

 

On the 15th of April 1995, the Smiths’ neighbours knocked on their door, shocked to discover the whole family was missing, despite the car being in the driveway and there being no sign of anything being taken from the rooms. No one had heard from them in days—the children hadn’t been in school and Harry hadn’t been in work. A search party was sent out, and a shell-shocked Harry Smith was found twenty days later in an abandoned house in Oregon, allegedly rocking back and forth. A few days later, a fisherman near the coast uncovered the bodies of his wife, son and daughter, just a few miles away from where Harry Smith was found. Their teeth and fingers and toes had been cut off and their faces heavily mutilated.

 

Of course, his name wasn’t really Harry Smith. It didn’t happen on April 15th or 1995, hell, there’s a good chance it didn’t even really happen in the 1990s and he almost certainly didn’t live in California. It was a true event, L had said, just names, locations and dates switched around.

Light had no idea why L thought telling him the real names, dates and locations was risky, but he was in no position to weigh in.

 

“Are you not paying attention?” L looked annoyed. L seemed to be more interested in whether or not Light was paying attention to him than the murder of three people.  

 

The truth was—Light was hardly paying attention. Sad as it was, the distant, unimportant murder of some civilians was hardly enough to distract him from the shops and cars they passed—nor the long-forgotten feeling of fresh air in his lungs.

 

“No, I am.” Light lied. He felt oddly at ease, a feeling that felt so distant it was almost new. A lot of feelings felt half-forgotten nowadays, as if Light had shoved them to the back of his mind and they’d been collecting dust ever since.

 

“It’s just...” Light continued lazily, his eyes skimming the passing attractions, “I haven’t been out in months, I don’t want to think about homicide, if you don’t mind.”

 

L regarded him for a few seconds, his eyebrows likely raised, before his gaze fell to the concrete. Light could see his eyes flitting between the sidewalk and Light, and hardly anywhere in between. Other people’s eyes were following L though—both of them—but Light imagined for different reasons.

L didn’t seem to need to look where he was going. He must have known London well—since the streets were crooked and winding and intricate—nothing like the straight, geometric roads in other, newer cities. Light had no idea how anyone could find their way around this place.

 

“You seem quite familiar with the city,” Light observed after a few minutes of silent walking. He would have liked his words to be tentative, but the roaring of bus and car engines and the bustling of the people going past them forced him to speak more loudly.

 

“I do,” L said. His words were clipped—as if he had no intention to elaborate, which Light imagined he didn’t.

 

“Do you mind stopping?” He asked, “We could get coffee, or tea, or whatever.”

 

Light didn’t want to admit it, but he was starting to get tired. It was only natural that after months without exercising walking around a city for a few hours would be straining—but that didn’t mean he wanted L to _know_ he was struggling, even though it was obvious Light was hardly in pristine shape. His skin was yet to regain the golden hue he remembered, and was still an unhealthy wan color. Despite always being somewhat willowy, now his ribs and spine protruded as well, and if Light had to guess, he supposed he was about L’s weight now. Maybe even less.

 

“We can do that,” L agreed. His eyes searched the street. After a few blocks, he stopped Light with his arm and gestured to a squat coffee shop across the street. “That place is nice.” He said. “I’ve been there before.”

 

Light trailed after him, weaving through the traffic and ducking out of other people’s way. L grabbed two seats outside, sitting with his knees drawn against his chest, fiddling with the sachets of sugar in front of him. A waitress drifted over, throwing Light a dazzling smile and all but ignoring L. She asked Light whether he was a student, or whether he was on holiday. With some hesitation, he said he was here visiting a friend.

 

“Oh, that’s nice,” she said brightly, “And what can I get you?”

 

“Uh. A black coffee, please.”

 

“And could I get a Latte with vanilla syrup, please?” L piped in. She threw him a slightly disgusted look.

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

She took their menus away and stalked off to serve other people. Light’s eyes lingered on her for a few seconds, and L followed his gaze.

 

“I don’t know if I should leave her a tip... she wasn’t very friendly.” He mused, huffing.

 

“Big city workers never are.”

 

“She was nice to you,” L said sourly. “Besides, _I’m_ the one paying.”

 

Light snorted. He tucked his fist under his chin, and looked at L through thick eyelashes. He was deliriously happy--a state he couldn’t ever remember being in before. He’d be perfectly happy to idly converse with L about things that didn’t matter, or go home and fuck--he didn’t care.

 

“What?”

 

“I’m waiting for you to say something wildly amusing.”

 

“Everything I say is wildly amusing. If not, it’s wise and brilliant.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“You know,” L added, “you never told me who you thought killed the Smiths.”

 

“The Smiths?” Light leant back in his chair and cleared his throat, letting his mind search for answer. “I hadn’t really been thinking about that, to be honest.”

 

“I didn’t think you’d take you long to figure out an answer.”

 

“Well, the obvious answer is the father,” Light said carefully, “but I doubt that’s the truth. It’s too easy.”

 

“No,” L’s fingers fumbled with the sugar container. He pulled a few out and emptied them into his mouth, his eyes still on Light’s. “That’s the right answer.”

 

Light frowned. “If it was that simple, why did you bother asking?”

 

L shrugged, emptying another packet onto his tongue. “I wasn’t so interested in _who_ did it, so much as _why_.”

 

“Why should that matter? If you’ve found the culprit with conclusive evidence, why should it matter?”

**  
  
**

“The motive tends to lead you to a suspect, does it not?”

 

“Is there a point to this?”

 

The waitress then reappeared, two steaming cups of coffee in her hands.  She placed one in front of Light and one in front of L and with a departing smile, bustled over to tend other customers. L took it from her graciously, and began to slurp at it loudly.

 

“There is actually.” L continued, after taking a long gulp. “You’ll see it. Eventually.” He made a face, and put the cup down quickly.

 

“What? Is something wrong with it?”

 

“It’s extremely bitter.”

 

“Coffee tends to be.”

 

L wrinkled his nose, taking a fistful of sugar sachets from the container between them, and beginning to empty them methodically into his drink one by one.

 

“As I was saying. The motive.” L gestured vaguely with one hand and put his cup down with the other. “The motive. As you can imagine—it didn’t take too long for the police to confirm that the husband did it. They were suspicious of him to begin with; what with simple forensics and record checking the whole affair was rather entry-level. But what eluded so many was why. Harry Smith had had no history of violence or mental illness. As far as anyone knew, he hadn’t endured anything traumatic in his childhood or since. Why would he murder his entire family apparently, without cause?”

“I don’t know. And why do you? You’re not a psychologist.” Light said impatiently. All he really wanted to do was not think about anything—

At least for a few hours. He massaged his temples. The air seemed so heavy nowadays, like it was ready to collapse and crush all his bones.

L grit his teeth, pointedly avoiding Light’s eyes.

 

“I have hobbies,” He replied vaguely, “Besides, don’t you think that catching criminals involves at least a little of an understanding of how a disturbed mind works?”

 

“Ok, fine, fine,” Light relented, not wanting to be forced to listen to L lecture him, “Why did he do it?”

 

“Well, they did a psychological evaluation. He thought his family were trying to kill him.”

“His family?” Light asked pensively. “Even the two year old?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well that’s…” Light’s eyes went past L. He was having trouble on focusing on anything, but the idea of believing your own children to be trying to kill you managed to penetrate the fog. “Horrible.” He said, blinking. “The whole case is horrible. How could he possibly think that?”

 

“Severe paranoia. Maybe psychosis. Who knows.” L cocked his head to the side, “He was convinced _they_ were the ones who had gone mad. He swore he saw his wife putting poison in his drinks, that he saw his two year-old drawing pictures of him being hung drawn and quartered…” His words teetered off.

 

“Are you going to remind me why you’re telling me this?” Light questioned tiredly.

 

L cleared his throat. He scratched the back of his neck, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I just… thought you may have been interested.” He said, “I guess not.”

 

Light didn’t dispute the fact. He wasn’t interested, beyond the normal disgust any normal person would feel. Had he been in a different mood perhaps he would have been, but today it felt too out of place. He wanted to think about the blinking lights of London—and the fact that if he closed his eyes, he could convince himself everything was as it should be.

 

“Why have you taken me out, L?” Light asked carefully.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You know exactly what I mean. Why are we here, out in the open, when a few weeks ago we were being so secretive?”

 

L had the decency to look awkward then; his eyes falling elsewhere. The rare, pale English sun made his skin look luminescent—not the unhealthy, sickly pallor it normally held, but something more like alabaster.

 

“Circumstances have changed.” He said quietly.

 

“Circumstances? What circumstances, exactly?”

 

“I can’t tell you.”

 

“Oh, of fucking course.” Light fell back into his chair. The obtuseness was even more grating than normal—and that was saying something. It interrupted the blissful delusion that made Light forget about the slab of metal around his ankle.

 

“Sorry, could I get another one of these?” Light called, catching the waitress’s eye. He held his cup forward.

 

“Uh, sure,” she simpered and took his cup.

 

“I wouldn’t drink too many of those. You’ll be buzzing for hours.”

 

“I have a high tolerance.” Light insisted.

 

“I have no idea how anyone can drink black coffee,” L said dryly, “It’s so disgustingly bitter.”

“To tell you the truth,” Light said gingerly, “I prefer my coffee with cream. I just like the extra kick of energy black coffee gives me.”

 

L regarded him with mild amusement. “Hm, who would have thought? People say you can tell a lot about a person by how they take their coffee. Maybe it’s better for indicating how they want to present themselves.”

 

‘You’re hardly one to talk.” Light wrinkled his nose as he glanced at the other man’s drink, “how many packets of sugar are in there? Fifteen? Twenty?”

 

“As I said,” L smiled over his cup, “black coffee says ‘serious, pensive and bitter’, White with sugar says ‘immature and not particularly worried about hiding it.” He motioned to his own cup, “having more sugar than liquid says ‘a hopeless eccentric who is most likely trying to make you uncomfortable.”

 

“Which is exactly what you are.”

 

“Yes.” L considered his words for a moment. “Don’t get me wrong, I care what people think. Everyone does, no matter how much they try to deny it. Humans are tailored to lie because we need to in order to survive—there’s not much someone can do with the person we really are, and we all know ourselves well enough to know that.”

 

“How cynical.”

 

“But true. And you’re the last person who could ever testify otherwise.”

 

“Fine. But how does acting like a creep benefit you in any way?”

 

“People underestimate you. Take sitting and standing in a certain way--it makes you look smaller, and people underestimate your strength. And when you act in a blunt, crude way, they underestimate your emotional intelligence and strength in manipulating others. But they’re wrong. There are enough intelligent people in this world to realize when nice people are really just out to get something, but when you’re unlikable or strange, people assume you’re honest. There are many ways to manipulate people without having to pretend like you actually respect or like them.”

 

When Light thought about it that way, it made sense. L cared about what people thought—but not whether or not they liked him. But Light _needed_ to be liked—not just for the things it gave him, but the kick of being assured that he was the best.

 

“Huh,” he sniffed, “I get the feeling you don’t say that to all your captives, do you?”

 

L tilted his head to the side but didn’t respond. Light could see the waitress approaching from the corner of his eye; several trays of steaming cups were balanced on her arms—one of which Light presumed was his.

 

“Sorry for the wait,” she said sheepishly once she got closer, “You were the—”

 

Her hand must have slipped, because before Light could register anything, she had stumbled in front of him, and a searing hot pain was shooting up his arm. He jumped back, grabbing his arm protectively. His vision went white, and suddenly the café disappeared.

He thought he heard the waitress calling some kind of futile apology, but her voice was deadened and distant, because he wasn’t in London anymore, he was slumped against a wall, just like the one in his dream—

 

_Someone was pulling his hair back. The feeling wasn’t quite as painful as it should’ve been, like the waitress’s voice, it was somewhat dulled. He registered distantly that something was being poured onto his arms, scorching the tissues and making the blooming cuts and bruises intolerable. His throat was hoarse from screaming, and maybe he was yelling now, but he couldn’t hear anything. Someone was yelling his name, but it wasn’t L, it was familiar though, and filled him with a sense of déjà veçu. The man was hitting Light’s head against the wall causing his head to snap back and forward like a rag doll._

 

_Was the man asking for information? Probably. Light couldn’t tell, but it was what it looked like. He wanted to answer whatever the guy’s question was, anything to make the screaming in his bones go away, anything to stop the scorching—_

 

_Oh, God, stop please stop i’m sorry please stop i’ll tell you everything just please—_

 

_Another voice. Female._

 

The waitress.

 

“Sir? Sir? Are you alright?” She sounded panicked, and from what Light could see, her cheeks were slightly flushed. “Jesus Christ—should we get him medical attention?”

 

“No, no. I’ll handle it.” That was L’s voice, Light was almost certain. It held the same authoritative, steady lilt it always did—Light could have recognized it anywhere.

 

“Ryuzaki…” his own voice croaked out, needy and childlike, his hands groping for something familiar. His arm was still burning, but the sun and the shiny silver tables were beginning to come back into view. He didn’t know why the alias slipped out, but it felt familiar and in a strange form of nostalgia--He was lying against concrete, and could feel something damp and warm in his hair. Blood.

 

There were hands around his torso and arms, steadily guiding him away. Light became aware of his own laboured, unsteady breathing and shaking hands gripping L’s arms. The floor was still spinning, and Light’s head was throbbing with pain, but the vision was gone.

 

“Come on, Light,” L said soothingly in his ear. “Let’s go home.”

 

* * *

 

It was evening when Light woke up. Sun was seeping through the blinds, casting gold stripes down the bed.

L was watching him from across the room, a thin trail of pearly steam coming from the cup of tea in his hands. His features were indistinct in the wan light, and the hollows of his cheeks and eyes casting dramatic shadows across his face. Light wasn’t an artist—but he would have liked to draw or paint it if he was. It was strangely picturesque.

Even L added to the soothing, picture-like scene. He didn’t think anyone could call L beautiful or handsome, but he was striking. His body was thin and all angles, his hair spiky and strange, like something from one film Light couldn’t remember the name of.

 

“You’re awake.” L said gently. His voice hurled Light out of his thoughts. “Are you alright? You’re staring at me.”

 

“I’m not.” Light said quickly, turning his head to hide the heat he could feel creeping up his neck. He breathed in the scent of the pillow detergent.

 

Silence hung over their heads for a few long seconds, and Light became aware of his head’s rhythmic pounding, and of the exhaustion that seemed to wash over every inch of his body. His muscles were stiff from disuse, and his hair was mussed from being slept on.

 

“What happened?” Light asked, his voice scratchy and tired. He rubbed his eyes.

 

“You had some kind of flashback,” L’s head tilted to the side, his eyes narrowing, as if Light was a particularly tricky crossword puzzle. “I took you home and you fell asleep straight away.”

 

“Flashback…” Light repeated slowly, sinking his head into his pillow. “I don’t… I don’t understand…”

 

“Really?” L asked earnestly, “I’d think it’s a pretty basic psychological response—”

 

“I know what it is,” Light hissed, rolling over. He could feel L’s eyes on his back. He wasn’t angry, nor was he in the mood to get angry, but he preferred to maintain the façade of impatience whenever he was around L—it felt safest.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“No.”

 

Light felt the weight on the bed shift, and before he realized, arms were snaking around his ribcage from behind. The arms constricted, hard enough to make his eyes widen slightly.

 

“Ow,” he said, wrinkling his nose. There was no real discomfort, but Light liked having something to say. L didn’t respond, letting his finger glide down Light’s neck, making him shiver.

 

“Are you going to let me go to sleep?” Light murmured. To his dismay, the corners of his mouth crept upwards.

 

“Mmm.” L responded, pressing his mouth against Light’s hair.

 

Light wasn’t quite sure how long they stayed like that, in silence, but he did know that most of the light had begun to leech out, leaving them in near-darkness. The bed could’ve been painted in cobalt and black.

 

“I don’t want things to change,” L whispered after a long period of silence. “I don’t want you to change.” He said it like it was a secret—because it was.

 

Light didn’t respond, instead twisting his body around and burying his nose in L’s neck. Maybe the quiet was an admission in itself—that perhaps he could be content with imprisonment. He wouldn’t ever be—not really—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t live with it.  

 

 _“I might not want things to change either,_ ” he wanted to say. “This feels calmer than normal,” he said instead.

 

“How so?”

 

“Sometimes I think all we do is argue and fuck,” he hesitated, “and play cards.”

 

Light could feel the muscles in L’s face shifting as he smiled.

 

“I like playing cards,” he said with a laugh, “I like the second thing too. Although, the first thing….”

 

“What about it?”

 

“I think it’s either my least favorite thing or my favorite.” L admitted.

 

“I can see that.”

 

“L?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Are you ever going to tell me everything?” He asked meekly. Light could have never described himself as ‘meek’ previously, but now it seemed to define him. He felt emasculated and lied to; but a large part of him didn’t care.

 

L inhaled slowly, staying dutifully quiet.  

 

“I don’t know.” He confessed. It wasn’t a real answer, and they both knew that, so L pulled Light’s face down to meet his instead, his hands curling into his hair like a vice.

 

They fucked like that; lazy and slow—like they had all the time in world, and Light pretended like he couldn’t sense the ticking of a timer bomb in his head as he nuzzled L’s neck appreciatively.

 

“I can’t let you leave.” L told him through a ragged breath, as he dug sharp fingernails into Light’s shoulders.

 

* * *

 

“It never occurred to me to ask,” Light started vacantly, “But what case are you working on here?”

 

L looked up from his papers, a slightly sheepish expression crossing his features.

 

“To be honest...” he admitted, “...none. I haven’t got any cases at the moment that really require me to visit the scene. So, I’m solving most cases from here—at least at the moment.”

 

“But I thought you liked going to the scene?”

“I do…” L said, his voice trailing off. His gaze dropped back to the papers, making Light scowl. “But I have you to worry about. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

 

Light’s frown deepened.

 

“I’m not a child. You don’t need to babysit me.”

 

The corner of L’s mouth twitched.

 

“Besides,” Light continued, allowing a little hope to seep into his voice, “I could help you, right?”

 

“No.” L said curtly. He looked up quickly, and apparently noticed Light’s wounded expression. “I mean,” he said hurriedly, “you _could_. It’s just…”

 

It was almost funny, to see someone like L tripping over their words (and had Light not been pissed, he would have laughed.) Despite his gangly and fragile-looking frame, he radiated an aura of audacity and control. It had always seemed unfair to Light—that no matter how much L downplayed his strength, people always seemed to recognize it.

 

“…It’s complicated.” L finished weakly.

 

“Why? Don’t even try to pretend it’s because you don’t think I’m smart enough to keep up with you—because we both know that’s not true.”

 

“Hmm, yes. Would you like some tea?”

 

“Stop avoiding the question, asshole.” Light paused, “And yes, actually, I would.”

 

“You’d be amazed at how much I can avoid questions,” L said under his breath, “I’ve been avoiding things for my whole life.” Grudgingly, he put down his papers and headed over to the counter in the corner. When Light looked up, he saw that L was staring at the kettle, his expression more concentrated than Light had ever seen it.

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t…” L said dumbly, staring at the kettle like it was a ticking bomb.

 

“You don’t what?”

 

L was silent, instead glaring at the counter with his lips pursed. Light couldn’t help but think of a moody toddler.

 

“You don’t know how to use a fucking kettle, do you?” He said flatly.

 

L looked away, abashed.

 

“Why the hell did you offer to make tea then?”

 

L gaze lifted to the wall.  “My mother used to make tea,” he said quietly, “…to diffuse tension.”

 

Light watched him for a moment, before walking over, grabbing the kettle and putting it swiftly under the tap.

 

“Mine did too.” Light laughed nervously, “Then again, she also made tea when anyone came home. Or when someone was upset. Or whenever, really.”

 

L didn’t say anything. His silence was starting to unnerve Light. It was uncharacteristic.

 

“Anyway,” Light said hurriedly, “the electric kettles are the easiest things to work. You just…” he placed the kettle back on its base, and flicked the tab, “...do it like that. Even you could work it. Where’s the tea?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Light rolled his eyes, murmuring a chiding ‘of course’. He began to rummage through the cupboards, searching blindly for tea. Noticing L’s eyes trained on the side of his face, he turned towards him, quirking his eyebrow slightly.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Are you laughing at me? Because you’re hardly in the position—since you’re probably in your twenties and you can’t make tea,” he froze, looking at L sceptically. “You’re in your twenties…. right?”

 

“Yes.” L said. “I’m twenty-five.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“You’re surprised?”

“Not really. Sort of. I don’t know,” he frowned, examining L’s face. “I could never quite guess your age. My two primary guesses were that you were either my age… maybe a year older, or twice my age and moisturised a lot. I could never decide.”

 

“I’m still quite a bit older than you. Don’t you mind sleeping with old men?”

 

Light cringed. Hurriedly, hoping L didn’t notice, he returned to rummaging through the cupboards.

 

“You’re twenty-five.” He said softly. “I don’t think anyone could ever say you were old.”

 

L leaned against the counter. It wasn’t something Light had ever seen him do. He looked much less awkward and out of place than usual; almost like a normal man of his age.

 

“Would you still be with me if I was forty?”

 

“I don’t think I’d have much choice, considering I can’t leave this complex without you. The way things are going, I’ll be with you for a long time.”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

Light considered.

 

“Probably. I’d just make a lot more jokes about the possibility of you breaking your hip mid-intercourse.”

 

“You’d sleep with a forty-year old?”

 

“No, I’d sleep with you, even if you were forty. There’s a difference. Anyway, why are you so fixated with my age? Excited that you’ve scored with a hot nineteen-year old?”

 

“Never mind.” L muttered, looking away. “It’s inappropriate, though.”

“The age gap?”

“Yes.”

“Of course it is. Everything about our relationship is inappropriate.”

“That’s true.” L sighed, “The age gap is the least of the issues. You’re my prisoner.”

Light didn’t meet his eyes. “You think it’s unethical?”

“It _is_ unethical.”

“That’s never stopped you before.” Light muttered.

L opened his mouth to say something, but quickly closed it. They stood in silence for a few minutes, the troubled look not disappearing from L’s face.

 

Light licked his lips, finally fishing a box of tea bags from the back of the cupboard. He waved it in L’s face briefly, before plopping two bags in two mugs, which earned a scowl from L.

 

“You’re supposed to put tea in teacups,” he grumbled.

 

“Be quiet, brat.”

 

L resolved to sitting on the counter, watching Light with thinly veiled scrutiny and making pedantic comments as he made their tea. Light eventually gave up responding, instead only responding with a series of increasingly dismissive grunts.

 

“It’s too quiet.” L said after a while. He disappeared through the doorway and came back with a small, black device in his hands.

 

Light laughed airily, “An iPod?” He scoffed.

 

“What? Aren’t I allowed to listen to music?”

 

“It’s not that. I just find it funny that you listen to music on an iPod, of all things.”

 

“They’re far more convenient.” L’s dextrous fingers skimmed over the surface, “Do you have a favorite song, Light?”

 

“No.”

 

“Fair enough. A song you like?”

 

Light shrugged, “I can’t remember ever listening to music.”

 

“What kind of person doesn’t listen to music? It’s like not watching films. Or reading books.”

 

Light shrugged again. “I can’t really say I have any passion for films or books, either.”

He looked up to see L staring at him, seemingly baffled. He shook his head and began to fiddle with the iPod again. He appeared to have selected something to his taste, Light noted, and took a step back, his eyes closing for a brief second.

The music was low, and Light could tell it had been recorded a good few years ago. Some the music was slightly difficult to understand due to the singer’s monotonous drawl, but Light could make out that it was about death. A funeral, most likely.

 

“Cheery,” Light said, making a face.

 

“True art is rarely cheery,” L snorted, his eyes skimming every surface of Light’s skin. He cracked a half grin.

 

There was a small, square window over the counter, dribbling pink light onto L’s back. Light could see every speck of dust in the air.

He drifted over to L, a cup of tea in each hand, watching steam leech from the cups and into the air. When he took a sip, the tea scorched his tongue, but his state was too trance-like for him to care.

 

“What’s with you?” L murmured, looking up from his cup. His face was stone but his eyes were silk.

 

“Nothing.” Light said. His voice sounded dreamy and light, a tone which was both unfamiliar and liberating. He couldn’t shift his eyes from L—all silver skin and inky hair. Reaching forward slightly, he brushed his fingers over the back of L’s hand, following the green-blue veins with the edge of his nail, too delirious with contentment to care what L did in response. He met L’s lips in a kiss, soft and chaste and so unlike them. Light smiled against his mouth, and felt L’s lips twitch in return.

 

His head fell against L’s shoulder. It wasn’t comfortable, and Light could feel the sharp edges of L’s collarbone dig into his forehead. Exhaustion began to wash over him, and he let L’s fingertips run down his spine.

 

“This,” he said, barely a whisper, “This isn’t too bad.”

 

* * *

 

It often crossed Light’s mind that L didn’t move the same way he looked. When L wasn’t moving, he looked gangly and awkward and horribly out of place—and there was no way he could ever go unnoticed. But when he moved, he was far more like a ghost. Almost blending, evaporating, into the space around him.

Light didn’t think he’d ever noticed that before. But everything had felt like a hot haze for the past few days. Maybe he was coming down with a fever again.

 

“You’re bleeding,” said L gently, his eyes narrowing slightly. He traced his thumb over Light’s bottom lip, crimson coming away on his fingers.

 

“It’s nothing,” Light returned, his voice close to dismissive. “I imagine you bit through it.”

 

L smiled. “You’re lips are dry anyway. They’re flaky and white—you look like a zombie.”

 

“I feel like a zombie.” He rolled over, squinting as L reached across him to switch the lamp across him on. With an expression that Light could’ve mistaken for concern, he pressed the back of his hand to Light’s forehead, his frown deepening.

 

“You’re burning up,” he said dully, “You’re getting sick again. What is with you?”

 

“A coincidence,” Light interrupted, “It’s not fair to keep me up here because I got sick one time.”

 

L didn’t say anything, letting the seconds drag by. Light focused on the ticking of the clock by the bed.

 

“Shouldn’t you go away?” Light said finally, “You’ll get ill too.”

 

“I’ve never been ill once.”

 

“Not even a cold? I don’t believe you.”

 

“Not once.”

 

“Well,” Light grumbled, “There’s a first time for everything.”

 

“Are you _hoping_ I’ll get sick too?”

 

“A little,” Light admitted, “It gets lonely.”

 

“You’re not alone. I’m here.”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

L stared at the ceiling. “I have another…. subordinate coming to see us in a few days.”

 

“And you neglected to tell me this… why?”

 

“It slipped my mind.”

 

“Pfft, sure. Will I like him?”

 

“How am I supposed to know that?”

 

“Because I know that you’ll know. Will I?”

 

L shrugged, “He’s quite agreeable. More so than Mello.”

“That’s not very hard.” Light huffed.

 

L hands reached for Light’s head, threading strands between his fingers. “You should go to sleep.” His voice was soothing.

 

“I don’t want to.” Light murmured sleepily.

 

“You’ll get sicker.”

 

Light pulled a plush, white pillow his face and grumbled something indistinguishable.

 

“You make a valid point,” L said, “But I don’t like it when you’re sick. So, I’m going to go.”

 

In a flash, Light’s hand had sunk itself into the fabric of L’s shirt, without so much as moving his face from the barricade of cushions.

 

“Don’t go.” He said, his voice barely audible.

 

L stared at him for a long moment, before stalking through the door. Light’s expression dissolved into hurt, before he saw L return, his laptop under his arm. He noticed Light’s stare, and looked quickly away.

 

“I’ll do my work in here.” He said softly, and Light allowed a smile to tug at his lips.

 

“You’re staying?”

 

“I’ll stay,” he said evenly, and shot Light a firm “You go to sleep.”

 

Light put his hands up in mock-surrender, and buried his face back in his pillow.

 

* * *

Light wasn’t quite sure if he was awake or asleep, but he did know he was in his room—drenched in sweat and sprawled over tangled sheets. There were shadows on his walls. The room was saturated in color, even though it shouldn’t have been at this time in the night. It was unwelcome and suffocating and too red, and Light couldn’t breathe.  There were shadows on the walls. The silhouettes of people, dancing and darting out of Light’s vision every time he tried to reach out for them.

 

“Mr. Yagami,” a voice murmured in English. Their accent was malformed. Light’s head snapped back, and he realised with a start someone had come inside. Their face was shadowy and hard to completely distinguish, but Light could recognise the lines of concern in their face. Their hair looked bright red—but Light couldn’t tell whether or not it was just the light.

 

“Is he alright?” They said, their voice wavering and unsure. They were calling to someone outside. Light could tell by the square of yellow in the doorway.

 

There was a grunt, and someone, possibly L, said something low that Light couldn’t distinguish. Someone else had come in, and the cold back of someone’s hand was pressed to his forehead. More murmuring.

 

He couldn’t shake the feeling of disconnection between his body and mind, like he was watching someone else writhe on a bed in the middle of the night. He was sure there were hands and fingers on his ribcage. Light opened his mouth, trying to say something, but nothing came out. A face was by his, dark and gaunt with wild eyes, making him blanch.

 

Soothing words, more hands rubbing his shoulders. His name was being muttered almost silently against his hair.

 

“L… I can’t breathe.”

 

“Yes. I’m here, Light.”

 

* * *

 

Black, English breakfast tea wasn’t something Light had really ever tried before.

 

He was still coated in a film of sweat, his shirt peeled off and tossed on the floor. Despite feeling like his blood was on fire, he was still shivering. Matt sat across from him, legs crossed, clutching a cup of coffee Light imagined had long gone lukewarm.

 

Light cleared his throat, “I’m sorry. I can’t have had the best first impression on you.” He was still panting, and he couldn’t stop his eyes cautiously around the room. He must have looked insane to someone like Matt—or anyone, really.

 

Matt’s hair was the color of a traffic light—and as bright too. Brown roots were beginning to sprout at the top, and his skin was milky and pale and almost translucent. He sat in the awkward, stiff way of a teenager who was only just getting used to their newfound gangly limbs.

 

“Don’t apologize.” Matt replied rigidly. L had introduced him though soothing words in his ear, and had promised he wasn’t a threat.

 

L had gone outside, speaking quietly into the phone in a language Light didn’t recognize. His voice was fast and business-like. Light still felt disconnected to his surroundings, and couldn’t quite tell whether or not he was awake.

 

“So you’re L’s associate, right?” Light said gently, offering Matt a weak smile.

 

“I’m hardly an ‘associate’…” Matt said vaguely, “At least not anymore. I’m more of a friend of an associate.”

 

“Mello?”

 

“How did you know?”

 

“Lucky guess. You seem like the kind of person who’d… get along with him.”

 

“And what do you mean by that?”

 

Light paused, considering his words. L’s voice drifted through from outside, low, monotonous and somewhat relaxing.  

 

“I only met Mello once,” Light said slowly. It felt like a confession. “He’s intense in a way that some people are. Like they don’t really care if people think they’re strange or intimidating and-- for lack of a better synonym—intense. I think people like him tend to be drawn to people who… don’t bother with all of that.”

 

“You think I’m mild?” Matt laughed. He didn’t seem offended.

 

“I wouldn’t say that.” Light said with a shrug, “Some people just don’t parade it.”

“Do you think they can ever really succeed?” Matt said, “In acting normal, I mean.”

 

“I’m not a psychologist,” Light said, “In fact, I only really see one person on a regular basis. And we’re hardly the textbook definition of normal human interaction. But...” He was quiet, staring at his tea as it settled. “I think it always managed to bleed out.”

 

L breezed through the doorway, snapping his phone shut. He looked slightly dazed.

 

“What’s wrong?” Light asked, his voice coming out feeble than he would’ve liked.

 

“Business affairs,” L said briskly. He didn’t seem like himself. L normally seemed so in control, but now he seemed agitated, and if Light didn’t know better, out of his depth. It should’ve made him look younger, but instead it just made him seem far more tired and morose. His aloof and vague attitude would’ve normally pissed Light off, had he been less exhausted and only starting to be lucid.

 

L glanced Light’s way, his eyes softening slightly. “Are you alright?” He said quietly, reaching out for Light’s neck.

 

Light dodged his hand. “I’m not a child. And yes. By the way, your tea is crap.”

 

L snorted, slumping down next to him and drawing his knees up to his chest. “You look pale,” he said.

 

“I always look pale nowadays. Besides, you can talk.”

 

There was no real venom behind his words, but it felt right, like a pathetic echo of normalcy. Matt looked between them, his expression bemused.

 

“You didn’t answer the question. Do you feel better, Light?”

 

“A little.”

 

“Then go to bed.”

 

“No. I’m already up. And I don’t want to go back to sleep, I’ll just...” His words drifted off.

 

“If you don’t want to be treated like a child,” L said coldly, “I suggest you stop acting like one. Do I need to remind you that you are, in fact, a prisoner? I need to talk to Matt.” He exhaled impatiently, “Without you.”

 

Light’s smile had faded. “Fine.” He said stiffly. He smacked his empty cup down on the table, catching Matt sympathetic and somewhat guilty reaction.

 

He didn’t go to sleep. He sat on his bed, leaning against the headboard and hanging on the whispers drifting through the cracks under the door. He couldn’t really make out any of what either of them were saying.

 

He had tried creeping up to beside the door to see if the words were clearer, but Light still couldn’t understand what they were saying. They could’ve been speaking in another language he didn’t understand, for all he knew.

 

Time was beginning to fray his energy, but Light couldn’t stop himself from tossing and turning. His head was beginning to pound again, and not for the first time, he wished he could open the window.

 

With a sigh—Light resigned to the fact he wouldn’t be sleeping. Instead, he lay face down on top of the sheets, all but comatose, letting the hushed voices outside lull him into something like relaxation.

 

* * *

By some miracle, Light had managed to sleep, albeit lightly, for a few hours. He woke with a start, still covered in sweat. He got to his feet with a sway, nausea washing over him. He shivered, and listened tentatively for the voices outside.

 

To his surprise, there was only silence. Light padded over the door, pressing the side of his head against the wood. Still nothing. Not even the faintest trace of life. Hesitantly, he pushed the door ajar and peaked around, surveying the room for either Matt or L.He hadn’t wanted to say it, but his room had been horribly suffocating. The air was heavy and Light had been so sure he was choking.

 

Outside, the makeshift living room was half-lit by pale moonlight, leaving nothing but a silver outline visible to him. A laptop—presumably Matt’s—was closed on the couch, still whirring faintly.

L lay sprawled across the couch, his forearm covering his eyes, his mouth half open. His breathing was steady and slow, and, as far as Light could tell, he was asleep.

 

Light wasted no time. He half expected it not to work—and in the case that it did—it was unlikely L had left anything that could really help Light around, but it was worth a try. It made him feel less complacent, like he wasn’t just letting L tug him around wherever he pleased.

A pile of papers was haphazardly stacked by L’s feet, papers slithering out at angles, above a pile of multicoloured notebooks. Light traced his fingers down a few of their spines absently, and as a he pulled one out, he felt himself pulled under an avalanche.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, end of chapter 3. It was pretty long, and the original was about 2k longer, so I cut out a scene I thought was unnecessary to the plot. It was an alright scene, though, so I may publish it as a separate one shot in the next couple days.   
> Please leave a comment. Tell me which passages/dialogue/scenes you liked. I thrive off the attention.


	4. finale pt. i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which even more mistakes are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while to get out because, as I mentioned, mental illness sucks. But it's here. It's a little shorter than normal, because in the original draft it was 8/9k-ish and it was too long. So I split it in two.

_Daikoku’s courtyard never changed much; just a lawn, a few trees and some benches. During the winter, occasionally a sheen of ice would turn the grass silver, and in spring the trees exploded with color. But most of the time, it was the same. It still beat the classroom though, the stench and sweltering closeness of bodies made Light want to jump out the window. Or push everyone else out of the window. Or both._

_When he was sitting there stewing, and it could almost be peaceful. Not satisfying, but peaceful._

 

_“Yagami-kun?” The peace was shattered. Hayakawa-sensei wasn’t the teacher who normally taught them—just a babysitter. He didn’t know Light—didn’t know his genius or wit, or his impatience with being treated any less than such. He looked up, resisting the strong urge to scowl._

 

_“Were you paying attention?” Hayakawa asked. His lips were pressed together, exaggerating all the lines in his ugly, pink face._

_“Yes.” Light lied._

_“You were?” Hayakawa’s eyes glint smugly, “Can you name all of the Chinese Imperial dynasties?” He smirked cruelly, “In order?”_

_It’s insulting really—that Hayakawa thinks that would be challenging. Maybe he was hoping to give Light an easy question and laugh as he failed. Light eyed the rest of the room. A few of his classmates looked vaguely interested—in the envious and unsurprised way they always did when Light managed—once again—to prove he was better than any of them._

_Light loathed Hayakawa, and the best way to show that was to prove his superiority._

 

_“Qin dynasty, 221-206 BC,” he drawled, adding the dates in out of a primal and childish spite, “Han Dynasty, 206 BC-220 AD. Briefly interrupted by the Xin dynasty, which lasted from 9-23 AD. Following the fall of the Han dynasty, in 220 AD, China split into the Three Kingdoms, Wei, Shu—”_

 

_“That will suffice,” Hayakawa snapped. Humiliation burned behind his eyes, “I only asked for the dynasties, but if you want to give the entire class a history lesson, we have all of lunch.”_

_It wasn’t fair, but Light was too exhausted to blow his head, and instead blinked at Hayakawa with large, apathetic eyes._

_“I’m sorry, Sensei,” he said impassively, sliding back in his chair._

_Hayakawa reached over and yanked the blinds down, and the light disappeared, leaving Light to suffocate with these people, he wanted nothing more than to reach forward and tear Hayakawa’s fat throat apart—_

 

_“Pay attention in class.” Hayakawa finished, turning away and stalking back to the front of the classroom. His gaze occasionally drifted back to Light, to check he was paying attention--but despite Light’s staring eyes,he was far gone, and was letting Hayakawa’s words wash over him and seep out of the cracks in the door._

* * *

 

Soho at three in the morning was really a sight to behold.

 

It had been raining, and the flashing lights were reflecting on the concrete. Light wondered if it would seem more exciting to someone else—or maybe even himself—a few weeks ago. Everything for the past few days had felt dulled. Colors, noises, faces…

 

The entire city was bursting with colors so bright they hurt Light’s eyes, and now he was sure he was suffocating. He’d thought since he got his memories back his mind would be truly alive again, filled with memories and desires and emotions, but now all it could focus on was the small splashing sounds of his feet against the damp pavement.

 

There was a slight swaying to his movements, like a tree being blown in breeze. The people in the street must have thought he was drunk. He was. But only a little.

 

_Ha, this was Light Yagami. The world’s greatest serial killer, reduced to a drunkard swaying through the streets of London._

 

Over the past hour and a half he’d been to four different bars. He didn’t have any money, but wherever he went, people bought drinks for him. Light had had a vague feeling that the months of isolation and malnutrition had drained away any kind of sex appeal he had ever possessed—but seemingly not. Apparently people liked the hollow cheeks and angular features. Maybe they wanted nothing more than to graze their lips against the too-prominent collarbone, or find some feeling in the empty eyes. L said once that people were attracted to vulnerability, and Light could see truth in that. The only thing people were more attracted to than vulnerability was power.

 

He couldn’t remember any of their names—although he was certain at least one of them had given it. He didn’t care enough too—all their faces, male or female, blurred together.

 

There was one bar on the corner, flashing pink and green. A large group of men were pushing through, and Light managed to thread through unnoticed. The place was pulsating, and now, despite all the things that had changed, Light couldn’t get enough of it.

 

There were bodies, some dancing grotesquely to the beat, or not, of the music. Some swayed awkwardly at the side, some sat at the bar, chatting or yelling over the music. Light didn’t recognise the song, but it had a loud base and lots of auto-tune. He wandered over to the bar, and had barely sat down before a voice filled his ears.

 

“You look like you need a cheeseburger.” It said crudely.

 

Light half turned his head around, regarding the man with a scowl.  

 

“I don’t have much of an appetite nowadays,” he said icily.

 

The guy was mixed race, and looked like he was in his late twenties, possibly early thirties, his hair was a shock of black and there was stubble all over his chin. His gaze slid down Light’s neck and down his chest and legs, before drifting back to his face and flashing him a grin.

 

“Would you like a drink?” He asked.

 

“Sure.” Light said with a shrug.

 

The guy raised an eyebrow, “Any specific one…?”

 

“Surprise me.”

 

He laughed, studying Light’s face thoughtlessly, “I get the impression you don’t frequent bars or clubs that often.”

 

“I don’t.” Light told him. There was no point in lying.

 

“Do you have a name?”

 

“Ryuzaki.” Light said. The words had already tumbled out of his mouth before he really had truly considered them.

 

“Ryuzaki,” the man repeated, “...is that Japanese?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He nodded, “I thought you might be foreign. You have a little bit of an accent.” Light must have looked offended, as the man added quickly, “Only a small one. It’s not strong. It’s rather endearing, really.”

 

Light nodded, his eyes dropping to his hands. “Do you have a name?”

 

“Karim.”

 

“Well, I guess it’s nice to meet you, _Karim_.”

 

Light wasn’t quite sure what he was doing—whether or not he was flirting or just being friendly. The words weren’t really his, he’d put no thought in them. But the conversation was something to occupy him.

 

“What brings you here, _Ryuzaki_?” Karim asked.

 

“Boredom, mostly. I thought I might as well come here.”

 

“And why is that?” Karim’s words were dripping with honey. In any other circumstances Light would have hated his patronizing tone, the invading eyes—but today it was only gratifying.

 

“I wanted a drink,” he admitted, just loud enough for it to be audible over the music, “…and I don’t have any money.”

 

“Oh?” Karim’s eyes sparkled with amusement, “You’re one of _those_ , are you?”

 

Light wasn’t exactly sure what ‘those’ were, but he nodded vaguely anyway. He’d been doing a lot of things vaguely, lately.

 

“How old are you then, Ryuzaki?”

 

“Nineteen. I think.”

 

“You think?”

 

“I’ve been quite confused lately.”

 

“Are you drunk?”

 

Light giggled. “A little.” The bartender pushed his drink over, and Light stirred it lazily. “And how old are you?”

 

“Thirty.”

 

“A bit old to be chatting up nineteen year olds, don’t you think?”

 

Karim grinned wolfishly. “You tell me.”

 

* * *

 

 

_“People have been wondering where you went, you know.” Gray-hair said. His breath tickled Light’s skin. Bruises littered his neck like nebulas, scratch-marks down his arms like comets. “Looks like the world finally knows we’re here.”_

_“I said the same thing,” Light snarled, his voice scratchy and almost inaudible._

_Fingers yanked his hair back, the cool, and the sharp point of a knife pressed into the flesh under the curve of his jaw. “Did I say you could speak?”_

_Something lukewarm dripped down Light’s throat, making him slink back._

_“People are celebrating,” Gray-hair purred. “They worshipped you when you were there, like you were some kind of God. But they didn’t believe it. If they could see you… they wouldn’t be scared then either. And do you know why?”_

_His silhouette moved against the black. His movements were jagged and twitching._

_“Because you’re no God. You’re just a pathetic, scared little boy who doesn’t want to die,” he lunged forward with a feral growl, pushing the knife until it was millimetres away from Light’s forehead. Unconsciously Light cried out, to the wild amusement of the man, who barked with laughter._

_“We’re helping people, you know...” he said mildly, “We really are.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Someone else, an old Light Yagami, would have pounced on that insecurity and eaten it alive. But this Light wouldn’t—couldn’t. He would stay meek and silent because even though before long he’d be turning nineteen, he was still petrified of dying._

_He wanted to scream that they were no better—they were the kind of criminals he’d normally destroy. But he didn’t, because the man could easily slice his neck in two in a matter of seconds._

_He wasn’t sure how long he’d been here. The last thing he remembered before intolerable pain was being dragged by his hair into here and thrown against the wall, the damp stench filling his nostrils and making him vomit. They’d ripped off three fingernails for the mess._

* * *

 

The cubicle wall was cold and damp with sweat against Light’s naked back. Hands gripped his hips, securing him as he was slammed repeatedly into the wall. There was no kissing—instead Karim’s forehead rested against the wall just by Light’s head.

 

Beforehand conversation had been minimal, and foreplay had been virtually non-existent. Before Light had known it, he was pressed up against the cubicle in the men’s bathroom, head tipped back, being fucked into the wall. Hell, Karim hadn’t even taken his own shirt off.

 

Light could picture L standing behind Karim (Light had no idea how. It was getting cramped in here,) and he didn’t even seem to care—watching the scene with the forensic interest Light despised. He growled, and Karim must have mistaken it for a growl of pleasure, because Light could feel him smile against his neck.

L should be fucking miserable, watching Light fuck someone else, and God, he deserved it he deserved it he deserved—

 

His nails dug into Karim’s back as he came.

 

L’s eyes narrowed, and he looked wounded. It was delicious. L loved to pretend he was empty and hollow and nothing but information and guile made up his mind, but Light knew, he knew that wasn’t true. No matter how hard L tried, it wasn’t real. The monster who only told lies wasn’t real. Emotions always managed to ooze out any cracks—it was only human. And there were seven-fucking-billion on this planet.

 

Seven billion and Light.

 

Karim pulled out and dropped him to the floor, making him frown. It wasn’t like he wanted gentle reassurance and tentative caresses, but not throwing him the scum-covered tile floor would have been nice.

 

Karim nodded a goodbye and zipped up his pants before disappearing outside. Light supposed that was that.

It wouldn’t be that quick for him—he’d have to wipe all of the gunk off him. L was still there. His image shimmered and Light turned away, sighing deeply. He groped for his jacket and pulling it on, stumbling out of the stall and running his fingers through his hair. His shirt was ruined.

Mournfully, he peeled it off and tossed it in the trash, zipping his jacket up and crossing his arms over his chest. His hair was still ruffled and he probably stunk of sex. It wasn’t something he could be bothered to get rid of.

 

He pushed through the doors and back into the club. Karim was nowhere to be seen, and Light was glad of it. He threaded through the crowds, catching the laughing gazes in his direction.

 

 _I know what you’ve been doing_ , their eyes said.

 

Good, his said back.

 

The cold, British night hit him like a brick wall. Cold air snaked down the sleeves of his jacket and curled its way around his torso, making him shiver.

Light loathed standing still, but he knew that was the last bar of the night. Exhaustion was threatening to pull him under, and Light supposed he’d just have to wait to see what would happen.

 

He strolled down the sidewalks, slowly enough so that no passer-by could miss him, but quickly enough to seem only slightly dazed. After the better half of an hour, a sleek, black car pulled up near him, and before he knew, hands were pulling him inside.

 

To his surprise, L himself was there, his expression, for lack of a better word—disappointed. The bags under his eyes were more prominent than normal, and he fixed Light with a piercing stare.

 

“Why would you do that, Light?” He said lowly, dangerously.

 

Light scowled, avoiding his eyes as the car lurched forward. He stared at his reflection in the car window—and the gaunt, exhausted boy stared back. “You know why.” He muttered.

 

L was silent.

 

“You always do this, don’t you, Light?” He said, his voice cutting through the quiet. “You run away. When will you just face things, and stop acting like a fucking child?”

 

“I don’t act like a child.” Light mumbled.

 

“Yes, you do. You ran away from what you did, and you buried yourself in Kira because you couldn’t handle what you did. What you were doing. You ran away from your feelings for me, and now your running away again. Physically.”

 

“I couldn’t stay in that stupid fucking room. I’d kill myself before I stayed there.”

 

“Do you realize how worried we were? We thought you were dead.”

 

“Jesus, it was bound to happen. You barely supervised me when we went out, you practically did my job for me.”

 

L opened his mouth to say something, but closed it quickly. He looked at Light, his face shrouded in sorrow.

 

“You found the notebook, didn’t you?”

 

Light didn’t respond—but that was answer enough.

 

L sniffed, his black eyes unreadable.

 

“You lied to me.” Light hissed.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“No, no, you’re fucking not.”

 

“You’re right. I’m not. I made you forget you were a serial killer, how can that be a bad thing?”

 

“Because I didn’t consent to it!”

 

“What makes you think your consent made any sort of difference?”

 

“You still told me I was Kira. Even though you knew I didn’t think I was. You played with my head. That’s so fucked up. You’re so fucked up.”

 

“You’re calling me fucked up? You’re a serial killer, Light. You’re the king of fucked up. And you know what, at least I don’t pretend like I’m a saint.”

 

The back of Light’s eyes stung, and he looked quickly away, not wanting L to see.

 

“I couldn’t execute you.” L said after a pause, his words slow. “I couldn’t execute you because I was weak and I love you.”

 

“Liar.”

 

“Why would I lie about that?”

 

“You’re keeping me alive because you find me interesting. You think I’m a puzzle to solve. I’m not something for you to solve, alright? I’m just—”

 

“Just what, Light?”

 

Light seethed, gritting his teeth and gripping the leather seat tightly.

 

“I’m just a person, alright?” He said. His voice shook.

 

L watched him for a few seconds, his eyes shining in the dark. He leaned his head against the glass, and neither of them spoke for the rest of the journey.

 

 

Hot water pounded onto his back over and over, but Light didn’t feel it. He wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been standing into the shower, staring without seeing, his mind teetering on thought. He felt drained, but finding the energy to make himself fall asleep seemed impossible. Piloting this sack of organs was becoming exhausting.

 

There was a loud knock on the door, and Light was dragged out of his thoughts. Yelping, he jumped out of the water, realising the droplets had been scorching his back. He traced his back with his finger, he noticed it was hot and most likely burned.

 

“Who is it?” He called out wearily, wrapping a fluffy towel around his waist and slumping against the wall.

 

“Can I come in?”

 

It was L. His voice was low and tentative.

 

“Yeah, that’s alright.” Light relented.

 

The door swung open. L stood in the doorway, his thin shoulders hunched forwards and his hands dug in his pockets. He looked like paper, and Light thought that if a large enough gust of wind came along, it was tear him to shreds.

 

“Are you going to talk to me, Light?” L asked. Light couldn’t detect any emotion in his voice.

 

They were quiet. Despite his shower, Light could still smell the man’s (Karim, was it? His memory was in pieces nowadays) cheap cologne clinging to his hair.

 

Light lurched forward, his fingers threading in the inky hair and pulling his lips to his. The movements were jutting and quick and angry. His fingers raked down L’s neck and into his sharp shoulder blades, carving in crescent moons.

 

“Will this suffice?” He murmured against his mouth. “You can drop the nice-guy act, by the way.”

 

To his surprise, L sneered. “You’re a complete mess,” he laughed, “you’re lucky you found me.”

 

“And why is that?”

 

“Because who else would love you, Light?” L snarled, pulling Light’s face towards his, so their foreheads were pressed together. “Who else would love the real you, once they knew how insane you are?”

 

Light laughed.

 

“I fucked someone else,” he whispered, like it was a secret only L was fortunate enough to hear.

 

L didn’t respond. His fingers in Light’s hair ceased and his expression froze—scathing and unsurprised but miserable nonetheless.

 

_He deserved it he deserved it that fucking bastard deserved it—_

 

His body was slammed into the wall, the corner of the doorframe catching his back, the yell of pain muffled by L’s demanding mouth.

He managed to pull away for a second, yanking L by the hair so the shell of his ear met with his mouth.

 

“He was older,” he snarled, “...more experienced, too.”

 

It was okay to hurt L, Light rationalised, because no ounce of jealousy could outweigh what L did. He might have thought he was doing Light a favour, but he knew nothing.

He’d locked him up and stolen his memories, and those memories had been everything, his dreams, his hopes and his comfort, they were the only thing that could drag him back into the body he despised. Without them, he was the shell he’d spent his first seventeen years in.

 

The Death Note had been _everything._

 

Kira had been _everything._

 

Kira was the embodiment of the bravery he’d never possessed, the leadership he’d always cowered away from, he was _everything_. And L had taken that away. He’d stolen his memories, and played his sick game of house, left him confused and emasculated and _fuck him._

 

His fingers snaked up L’s shirt, his nails digging in the planes of his stomach, pulling it over his head and shoving L by the shoulders towards the bed.

L’s collarbone was protruding and sharp. Light dragged his teeth down, causing angry marks to appear like red storm clouds. His skin was always cold, cold no matter how long he spent inside. Sometimes it seemed impossible to think that L’s heart beat like everyone else’s; that blood ran through his veins and into his lungs, that his bones could break and he would bleed when he was cut.

 

He pushed L’s hips down in a bruising grip, ducking so his face was millimetres away from L’s crotch. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulled down the zipper with his teeth, using one hand to pull the shabby and worn jeans down to his thighs.

 

“You’re disgusting.” he seethed, “You watched me in the shower and when I got dressed. You lied to me. You took advantage of me, you manipulative, perverted fuck.”

 

He was tempted to slap or punch or scratch him, but after his gaze slithered towards L’s face, he noticed L had fixed him with a cold, indifferent stare.

 

“You got your memories back,” he said dully. His fingers traced Light’s forearm. He didn’t sound surprised. “This is exactly what I expected.”

 

_I don’t want us to change._

 

“Obviously,” he replied evenly.

 

Light tore his gaze back and swiftly reached inside L’s boxers and grabbed his erection. He dug his nails in slightly and L gasped, and before either of them could change their minds, he enveloped the whole thing in his mouth.

His teeth scraped against it making L cry out. Light’s throat constricted, and he hummed gently. L grabbed his head and pulled it towards his pelvis, thrusting up and making Light’s eyes water.

 

And Light knew the majority of the arousal didn’t come from the physical pleasure, but the knowledge that he was skull-fucking the world’s most infamous serial killer.

He pulled away, relishing in the resounding groan that L gave in response. Without any hint of consideration or tentatively, he yanked L’s long, thin legs over his shoulders, and without warning pushed two fingers inside, making L’s back arch.

 

L writhed, his neck tilting to the side, exposing the prominent, ugly green veins. Had Light not been preoccupied, he would’ve reached forward and wrung the thing and forced every square inch of oxygen out, leaving L to deflate like an old balloon.

Pushing in without enough stretching was difficult enough—but keeping L’s body on the mattress was even harder. And despite any previous positions, this was the first time he’d ever really fucked L. Because at the end of the day it didn’t really matter whose dick was in who, because L took ownership of anything he touched.

 

But not anymore—because Light—Kira—refused to be fucked. He didn’t possess any vulnerability. He couldn’t. _He wouldn’t._

 

L finished almost with a groan, Light shortly after, without a word. He rolled off immediately, padding towards the bathroom without a sparing glance. Because he was nothing—no one—just like the others. He was forgettable and unremarkable and Light didn’t give a fuck about him.

 

He washed any traces off, not flinching when the water ran cold.

 

L had gone when he returned. He methodically peeled the sheets of the bed and tossed them in the wash, not even considering going to sleep that night.

 

* * *

 

Light wondered distantly whether or not he had developed an immunity to insomnia.

 

A doctor would say otherwise. He hadn’t slept in four days, save fleeting half-rests, bursting with vague and confusing dreams, which seemed into bleed reality. The patterns on the wallpaper had begun to shift and move like the sea, and a pounding headache had tailed him for hours. Days, maybe.

 

The door was locked again, but despite that, Light’s father had visited.

 

He didn’t say anything, just leaning against the bathroom doorway, watching Light from a distance, his eyes sad and disappointed. Light had howled for him to go away, because he didn’t know anything, and eventually, he did.

 

Occasionally, he found himself back in that cell. The one with the dirty floor and the broken clock. His memories of the place were still disjointed and encrypted, but Light did his best to piece the fragments together. It wasn’t working very well.

The most vivid flashback had been when they pulled him by hair and into a bath of water, letting him swallow the droplets of water, making his eyes water and his lungs scream. He’d thought he was drowning. Others appeared in kaleidoscopes of memories too, like the time they broke his legs like twigs, or the time they’d sliced up his back.

 

Food was delivered every few hours by Watari, but Light left most of it untouched. He ate just enough to stop himself from passing out from malnutrition.

Here, it wasn’t much different from that old place, not really. Expect this time, they left him to rot.

There was a clock over the bathroom door, and Light had long since climbed up and taken out the batteries, moving the hand so it was stuck at four.

 

The cell here was clean, and that was different too, because a clean cell meant you were never getting out.

He sometimes sung to himself, just to fill some of the silence. The only song he could remember was the one L had played for him—the one about the funeral. Even though he could only remember two lines.

He hummed the melody while he paced the cell, while he took showers, while he tossed under the sheets.

 

**In a strange way, the lyrics grounded him.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be honest and say I have mixed feelings on this chapter. It's either my favourite or my least favourite, lol.
> 
> Anyway, please comment if there were any parts you liked in particular!! I read (and often reply) to them all :D


	5. finale pt. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things (partially) come to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, the end is on the horizon. Soon you and I will both be free. After this chapter, there's just the epilogue. Which should tie up most lose ends this chapter left.

 

After a few days (Light had long since lost count) L finally came to visit him.

 

When he came in, L regarded him in the pitiful, but only slightly sympathetic, way most people looked at caged animals in zoos.

 

“You came,” Light said softly. His voice was hoarse and scratchy from prolonged disuse.  He was sitting at the desk, playing solitaire, only briefly looking up when L came in.

 

“I did.” L replied evenly, his face emotionless.

 

“I thought you were going to let me rot.”

 

“You and I both know I would never do that.”

 

Light sneered, and carried on flicking through the cards.

 

L shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “I’m here to straighten things out,” he said quietly.

 

“What things?” Light rasped back. His throat felt like sandpaper, and L seemed so alien. He shouldn’t be here—Light was supposed to be here. He was supposed to be the only real person in this room.

 

“The things that happened before you got here.”

 

He slid across from Light, playing distractedly with his fingers. Light looked up indifferently, and in a couple of movements swept the cards into a neat pile.

 

“Couldn’t you have done this earlier?” He asked smoothly, doing his best to keep his voice steady.

 

L had the decency to look away.

 

“You weren’t in your right mind.” He muttered, staring at the table.

 

“And you thought leaving me in isolation for days would _help_?” Light snarled, his voice cracking, “I keep seeing things. I’m not even sure if you’re real…” His eyes stung and he slid forward so his chin touched the table. “Make them go away, L.”

 

L watched him, his eyebrows creased and his mouth set in a line, “You know I can’t do that.”

 

Light sneered again, twisting his neck and pressing his cheek into the cool metal. “Fine.” He said, “Say what you were going to say.”

 

L took a deep breath in, as if preparing himself.

 

“After Higuchi was captured and you regained your memories, the Shinigami Rem made a bargain with me to turn you in in exchange for Misa Amane’s pardon.”

 

“So she’s wandering around whilst I’m locked up, then?” Light laughed bitterly, “She killed people too.”

 

“She’s not wandering free,” L promised, “she is currently serving two life-sentences, as well as the removal of all of her memories of the Death Note.”

 

“…And I was to be executed?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Light laughed hollowly. “Then how come I’m still alive?”

 

“The information must have leaked,” L said, “You were taken by a group—or a cult—of anti-Kira extremists.”

 

“For how long?”

 

“Two months.”

 

Light was quiet, soaking up L’s words.

 

“When we found you,” L continued, “your memories of the events were damaged as a result of trauma-induced amnesia, which were likely to be temporary.”

 

“So you elected to take those memories too, I presume?”

 

L shook his head, “You did.”

 

“I wouldn’t do that.”

 

“Well, you did.” L snapped. He looked away, and Light could see the beginnings of wrinkles indented in his forehead.

 

“So my memories will return fully?” Light paused, taking a deep breath. “Of my time with that… cult, I mean.”

 

“Most likely. Over time.”

 

None of the words seemed surprising. Being tortured, whilst the memories were fragmented, was wherever he went. Like a huge, black stain in the corner of his brain.

 

“So what happens now?” He asked L, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible.

 

“That is to be decided,” L replied, “If you are deemed docile enough, I might chose to keep you alive. Your intelligence is still extraordinary.”

 

“And if I’m not?”

 

“You’ll be executed.”

Light nodded. He hadn’t really expected any other answer. The thought of his imminent death was surprisingly uninteresting.

 

“I don’t want you to die,” L admitted, sounding breathless.

 

An overwhelming part of him wanted to indulge L, and tell him everything would be alright, and that he wasn’t Kira anymore, and that Kira was gone. He wanted to tell L he’d still be the person L loved, and that he’d always be like that. He wanted to believe it, too.

 

But the part of him that lived at Kira’s mercy still howled for him to tear L to irreparable shreds.

 

“Then don’t execute me.” Light said, with a gulp and a nervous smile.

 

“…I don’t want to.”

 

“And why is that, L?”

 

“You know why,” L said quietly, his brows furrowed. He looked defeated.

 

Light sneered, “But you still will, won’t you? Because your pathetic justice always comes first.”

 

“You’re one to talk.” L spat back, his hands digging into the table so hard they shook.

 

“My justice isn’t pathetic.”

 

“Yes, it is. It’s pathetic and it’s childish and I think you know that.”

 

“It’s not.” Light insisted. His voice was beginning to shake, and Light willed it to stop.

 

It was L’s turn to laugh, “Can you hear yourself, Light? You sound like a spoilt child, which is exactly what you are.”

 

“I’m not…” Light knew he sounded pathetic, but he didn’t have the energy to argue. The walls were beginning to swirl again, and L’s image was beginning to shimmer. Light was seriously considering whether or not he was really there.

 

L huffed with laughter, tilting his head back cruelly.

 

“Why are you doing this?” Light asked wearily. He hated that he was on the verge of tears, he hated the foggy, slow way his brain was operating, and most of all he hated L.

 

“Because I love you.”

 

“Shut the fuck up.”

 

“I do, and it’s the most masochistic thing I’ve ever done because I know a monster like you could never, ever love me back.”

 

“Stop acting like such a martyr; you don’t need to keep me alive, and I know you could move on if you _did_ kill me.”

 

“Right. You clearly don’t want me here.”

 

“No, I don’t. I thought that much was obvious.” Light shook his head disbelievingly, a crazed grimace contorting his features. “But do tell me one thing.”

 

“What?”

 

“Are you going to take away my memories of the notebook again?”

 

L watched Light carefully, moving his head away and giving Light a full view of the veins and tendons in his neck.

Internally, Light began to panic. He had considered it unlikely that L hadn’t wanted to do something like that, but it might not have been the case. For all he knew, saying those words had put the very thought into L’s head.

 

“No,” L said flatly, “we’re not. The notebook, obviously, won’t be given back to you, but I don’t think you ever really expected that to happen. It will removed from your physical ownership, but you’ll still be the technical owner, thus your memories will remain.”

 

“Why would you do that?”

 

“Why wouldn’t I? How would _that_ be in my best interest?” L asked, a mocking twinge to his gaze.

 

“But you know that if it’s not with me, I’ll lose my memories in four-hundred and ninety days, don’t you?” Light said quietly. He knew that L knew that—it was no secret L had poured over those rules as meticulously as Light had, but Light didn’t want him to operate under the illusion that he had forgotten.

 

“I do.” L didn’t meet his eyes.

 

“So, are you going to let me keep my memories forever, then?”

 

There was a pause as L hesitated. “We’ll see.” He said finally.

 

Light could admit to himself the majority of his emotions were relatively shallow. Mild annoyance and boredom seemed to have been his default state for years—and even those felt more dulled they should have been. But he did know the resentment that had built in his stomach for weeks—no, _months_ —was the most all-consuming thing he’d felt in years.

 

He wanted to hurt L more than anything.

 

“I know you want to find out about who I fucked.” He said, the words coming out in a free fall.

L paused, but didn’t look up. His eyes were unreadable--black and opaque and obtuse.

 

“Not particularly.” He said to the door.

 

“Liar.” Light laughed. His voice was strange and uneven from all the time spent in solitude—almost like the slur of a drunkard.

 

“It’s amazes me how you continually delude yourself with the belief that the entire world revolves around you and the unfortunate bastards you decide to sleep with.”

 

“You consider yourself an unfortunate bastard?”

 

“Yes, but it really has nothing to do with you.”

 

The exchange, the clinical nature and the setting all reminded Light of a prisoner’s visit. He clasped his hands together, digging his wrists into the cool metal of the table.

 

“It seems funny, really.” He said, “You seem to know everything there is to know about me, but I know nothing about you. I don’t even know your name.”

 

“I’m cautious?”

 

“Ha, really? I hadn’t noticed.”

 

“I’ll visit you later,” L said, meeting Light’s eyes briefly. His mouth was pressed into a thin line. He didn’t seem to have bothered pouring any sincerity into his words. Light didn’t say goodbye, and continued to absently play with his hands.

 

* * *

 

When Light was younger, for his and Sayu’s birthdays, his mother had always made a traditional Japanese breakfast. Okayu, Miso Soup, Natto, grilled fish and Tamagoyaki.

Light had never had much interest in food, but his mother’s food was the sole exception. To many, it wouldn’t even seem like the greatest Japanese breakfast the country had to offer—let alone the greatest food in the world, but something about it had always comforted Light. The smell, the warm smile on his mother’s face as she cooked it—everything—it felt like home.

The breakfast Watari had prepared wasn’t just like how his mother had—and it didn’t feel like home either—but it was damn well close enough.

 

“Are you alright?” L asked tiredly. He was half slouched over the table, half picking at his food, and half watching Light with mild interest. He looked about as tired as Light felt.

It had been several more nights of restlessness—only stealing moments of sleep when his mind quieted. There were no sheets on his bed, which only worsened things, since the ancient and scratchy mattress rubbed Light’s back raw. Despite the food, he was exhausted, and still wasn’t in the mood to speak to L.

 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” He asked hollowly, his eyes searching L’s, which dutifully fell to the floor. L didn’t answer, and continued pushing rice around his bowl with chopsticks. The mournful expression made Light twinge with guilt, and he added hastily that he was grateful for the effort.

 

“It’s nothing.” L said. He sounded monotonous and bored. He inhaled, as if gathering the confidence, and at last, met Light’s eyes. “I talked to your father earlier.”

 

The revelation stirred something in Light, awakening a feeling of shame he’d thought he’d long since killed.

 

“You did?”

 

“Yes. On the phone.” L continued, “He seemed… worried.”

 

“…Understandably.”

 

“He knows you’re alive. He doesn’t know the exact details but… he knows.”

Light nodded.

 

His father, strangely enough, hadn’t occupied a great deal of his mind. The idea of his father seemed to belong in a completely separate area of his brain to his mother and sister—filed away in the corner of his conscience concerning duty and honor and other things Light tried not to think about too much.

He admired his father—he really did. He admired the idealism and integrity that he himself had never possessed. But that didn’t mean he didn’t think he was a fool. He didn’t admire him the same way he admired L.

L reminded Light of the person he wanted to be. The eccentric genius who didn’t need to consider societal graces, because he was, and didn’t bother hiding, that he was above everyone else. He didn’t have constraints.

He was like Kira. He wasn’t a man—he was a concept, a omnipotent and omniscient force of nature. A _deity_.

 

Light had been a God. L still was. It tore Light’s mind to shreds to think he didn’t realise that—or at least pretended he wasn’t. L liked to pretend he was above the seduction—but he wasn’t. No one was, they just liked to think they were since they never came across the right circumstances.

 

“Are we going to leave?” Light asked. “Like we left China? Are we going to go somewhere else?”

 

“Why would we do that?

 

“They same reason we left China in such a hurry, I suppose.”

 

“In the near future, I doubt it.”

 

“So it’s not out of the question?”

 

“Not completely.” L looked at him questioningly, “Why do you ask?”

 

Light fidgeted in his seat. “I think I’m getting tired of it here.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I don’t know. I get up and change everyday, and that’s it. It’s always the same.” Even if there was much else to do, Light wasn’t sure it would help him. He got bored of everything, sooner or later.

 

“I’ve noticed.” L quipped dryly, “But it depends, really. We’ll be leaving sooner or later.”

 

Light nodded, and returned to his food.

 

It was almost like the past few days had never happened. Their relationship—if it could be called that—seemed to have no continuity. The rules seemed to shift; as soon as you got used to one set, the tables turned again and they were back to square one.

 

“And besides, I wouldn’t complain if I were you.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Have you forgotten who you are?”

 

“How the fuck could I?”

 

L grit his teeth and pushed the food away. He stood up, the chair making an ugly skidding noise as it moved backwards.

 

“What?”

“I’m not hungry.”

 

Light actually laughed. “That’s new.”

 

L scowled and narrowed his eyes. “I’m trying to be nice to you. How many other people can say I did the same for them?”

 

“Not many, considering the majority of them are probably dead.”

 

“You’re never grateful, are you?”

 

“For you taking my memories away without my consent? Or you making this food? Or should I say, getting Watari to make it.”

 

“Anyone else would have killed you.”

 

“Anyone else wouldn’t have caught me, L.”

 

It was a strange kind of flattery—but Light considered it as such anyway. Unfortunately, L apparently didn’t see it the same way. He gave Light a cold goodbye, and called for Watari to take his food away. With a dismissive nod, he wandered through the door without a second glance. Light didn’t care. He liked being alone. With a sulk, he returned to his food.

A large amount of his appetite had disappeared, but he forced some down anyway. He doubted he’d be able to keep it down, but it was worth a try. His skin was hanging  off his bones more and more as the days went by—leaving his with sallow, tired skin, a cadaverous frame and empty eyes. Christ, he looked like corpse. Or L.

 

Once he was done, he wandered back to his room. Someone had finally made the bed, and Light gratefully slid under the sheets. It was only eleven or so, but he had no desire to stay awake. His stomach clenching, he willed himself to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

Light had never read _War and Peace_ before; unremarkably though, he always said he had. That wasn’t rare. He remembered reading a statistic somewhere that it was the book the highest number of people had lied about reading. It was one of the kinds of books most people had started, or planned on starting, but few were intelligent enough to really understand.

For Light, it was less of a case of intelligence, and more of a case of him finding the entire thing incredibly dull. However, there was a dogged-eared copy in the corner of his room, which he’d only just recently noticed. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do. If he let his mind wander too much, he’d end up scratching up his own veins, or drowning himself in the bath, or something worse.

 

It was the afternoon now—Light could tell from the aurora of light coming through the window. He hadn’t spoken to L since that morning, spending his time patchily sleeping and flicking through books he didn’t care about.

 

“You know, I think I left the book out on purpose.” A silvery voice came from the doorway. Light turned round, his eyes skimming over L’s pallid complexion and relaxed body language. He wore a wan smile.

 

“The Death Note?” Light asked, doing his best to sound indifferent.

 

L scoffed, “No, _War and Peace_. Yes, the Death Note.”

 

“Why would you do that?”

 

L sighed, flopping next to Light. “I felt guilty.”

 

“Must have been new to you.”

 

“Ha. Yes, it was, mostly.” He looked away, scratching his neck, “You seemed happy. Well, not _happy_ , but not unhappy. But you seemed like a half.”

 

“I’m not a half.”

 

“No, not anymore. But you are without your memories.”

 

Light leered. “You’re doing a great job in winning back my affection.”

 

“What makes you think I give a damn about that?”

 

“Because you love me.”

 

“That doesn’t mean I want your affection. Loving you doesn’t mean I despise you any less.”

 

“How good of you.”

 

Light expected him to yell, like he always did, but instead feather-light fingers reached forward, sweeping down the back of his neck to his collarbone.

 

“I’m sorry.” He murmured again Light’s neck.

 

“When will you get it out of your head that I’ll ever love you back?” The words were unnecessarily malicious, but Light didn't care.

 

Light felt the shift of the muscles in L’s face, his eyelashes tickling his neck. He was hurt. And it gave Light a faint glimmer of satisfaction.

They both knew that Light was the one who should be apologising. But Light never apologised. He didn’t apologise in his actions either, he never even gave indication that he regretted _anything_. He was just as incapable of apologising as he was at forgiving.

 

Light looked away, trying his best to appear indifferent to L’s advances. Apathy was his speciality.

 

“You’re apologising,” he noted dully, “that’s new.”

 

“So is being honest.” L hesitated, “I don’t know if I like it.”

 

“You won’t, trust me. It seems nice in the short term, but it never lasts.”

 

“I suppose you’d know.” L’s arms wrapped around Light’s torso, his head falling to his neck. “I don’t like it when you’re angry with me.” He murmured against Light’s collarbone.

 

“I’m always angry with you,” Light scoffed, turning his head away slightly, “and you’re always annoyed with me. And if one of us isn’t annoyed with the other, the other will be extra annoyed. There’s a natural equilibrium.”

 

“Well,” L said with a smile, his voice slightly muffled, “will you be annoyed with me in your normal way, then?”

 

A year ago, those words would have been power. Light had always presumed L’s emotions were similar to his, at the best shallow, and at the worst non-existent. But now, that theory had been mentally scrapped.

Maybe L thought his emotions could be switched on and off—but Light knew better. He probably thought his feelings for Light were much like a broken leg; it would be sudden, painful for a while, but with treatment it would be cured and someone will give you a lollipop as some kind of consolation.

 

But Light knew better.

 

“I’ll consider.” He said coolly. L’s emotions were still power; the game wasn’t over. Not yet.

 

He turned to meet L’s lips, his right hand drifting up his cheekbone.

 

He hadn’t forgiven L. And L definitely hadn’t forgiven him. But that was a given at any moment—not just now.

 

L pulled back, tilting his head back slightly and surveying Light through strands of black hair. He reminded Light of something from a picture book or a manga, something delightfully strange and out of the ordinary—in no way beautiful or handsome—but attractive.

 

“How’s your book?”

 

“Incredibly boring. Has anyone ever actually finished this book? Does anyone have solid proof it ever actually ends?”

 

“I’ve read it.”

 

Light rolled his eyes and pulled away. “Of course you have, prick.”

 

“Why haven’t you finished it?” L asked, walking around and slumping down a few feet from Light, “You’re supposed to be a genius too.”

 

“I’m still susceptible to boredom.”

 

“I know that. I’ve seen the results.”

 

Light sighed, flopping back on the pillows and closing his eyes.

 

“I’m tired.” He said lamely.

 

He opened an eye to see L watching him reproachfully, his hand coming to rest on the fabric of Light’s trouser leg.

 

“Are we okay?” L whispered, his eyes owlishly large.

 

“No. We’ll never be okay. How could we ever be?”

L looked away, laughing humorlessly. “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

 

“I want you to leave me alone.” Light murmured. “Please.”

 

“A second ago, it seemed like you were being normal.” L reached longingly towards him, “I can never tell what you’re thinking.”

 

“Sometimes I think the same thing.”

 

Light could feel something rolling in his stomach, and he curled into himself, dodging L’s touch.

 

“It sounds cliché,” he said, “But it’s not just you—it’s me. It’s both of us.” His eyes stung, and before he could stop himself, he began to laugh raggedly. “How could this have ever worked, L? We’re supposed to be geniuses, but how could we not realise this could never, ever, function?”

 

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

 

“That’s the problem with you, L. You can’t admit when you’re wrong, and you never know when to quit.”

 

“As if you’re not the same way.”

 

Light had always considered himself, and with good reason, to be a calm person. Before finding the notebook, the whole world had felt dull and quiet and too easy to navigate.

How the hell had he survived? Without the notebook, without Kira, with without L? How could the world have left him without them, suffocating in a world drained of all its color by his own misanthropy? How hadn’t he gone mad?

 

 _He had_ , L would say. _He was just very good at hiding it._

 

Controlled madness.

 

But his madness hadn’t any control now—it was bare and exposed for everything it was—feral and uncontrollable and consuming. And now it was driving him to slam his fist into L’s eye over and over.

 

The impulse resonated through his body, making him lurch forward and pin L to the couch, bringing his fist down repeatedly into his face. L hardly moved, after the initial squirm—making the only noise in the room the sound of knuckles slamming into skin.

 

_Light could kill him._

 

It wouldn’t be too hard—Light hadn’t ever killed anyone with his bare hands, but how hard could it be? The hardest part about killing someone wasn’t the physical act—neither the guilt (to a weaker willed person, maybe, but not Light). The hardest part was starting, and after that it only got easier.

Maybe this would be his descent into physical killing. Being God was so boring—he’d already won over heaven—and the only thing Light hated more than losing was winning and being alone.

 

And what made the difference, really? The only thing that separated God from monsters wasn’t omnibenevolence (which didn’t exist, because really, could you really call anyone who left thousands of humans to drown whilst he chose Noah and all his other favorites to live) it was omnipotence. God chose what was good and evil because he could.

 

“Light…” L begged, almost making Light snap out of his trance, “Light …”

 

What L was asking Light for he couldn’t be sure. In likelihood it was for him to stop pummelling his face, but Light could pretend it was for the release of death. Either way, it didn’t matter. Light was still going to tear him limb from limb.

 

Light’s ears were filled with the beating of his heart, and distantly, he noted that strong, pale arms were dragging him off L. His vision swam, and he noted that someone was holding him to the ground like a rabid animal.

Red hair appeared in his line of sight, and as his view sharpened, he saw it was Matt--his features contorted into fury—an expression that seemed completely unnatural on him.

 

L seemed to have regained his sense, because he and Matt were hauling him up, and Light’s throat felt raw, even though he was fairly sure he wasn’t screaming, and he was being thrown back into his room. His back slammed against the wall, his spine stiffening as it caught the corner of a desk. He slid down, the clicking of the door shutting ringing in his ears.

It took him a few seconds to gather his thoughts, but when he had, he launched himself at the door, pounding his fists against the wood until they bleed. Shards of wood had found themselves under his nails, and streaks of blood streaked down the white paint like ribbons.

 

He _was_ screaming now.

 

“L!” He howled, “Let me out, let me out!”

There was a good chance L wasn’t even on the other side of the door. Maybe he was elsewhere—doing his best to drown out the childish, needy screams coming from Light’s room, or putting ice to the likely painful and large bruise adorning his cheek, or planning the best date for Light’s execution.

 

He slid down the door, his breathing laboured. There was no way they would keep him alive, not now.

 _It was okay_ , Light thought. _He still hadn’t bent to L’s ideals, and the bare minimum of liberty was to die on your feet._

 

It was a shame. Only now did his mind drift to the people he would never see again. His mother, his sister, his father, all the ‘friends’ from school he’d held at a comfortable distance, the relatives who gushed over his achievements and ate out of the palm of his hand. Hell, he even thought about Misa, with her shrill praise and misguided adoration for the person he couldn’t really be.

But then again, everyone had been in love with the person he couldn’t have ever been. The perfect son (who went on a killing spree) the perfect student (who never even finished his first year of college) and the martyred god (who was so afraid of dying he found solace in making death fear him instead.)

 

L would definitely kill him. L might care about him, but no more than he cared for himself.

 

Light didn’t bother masking the feral, terrified noises escaping his throat. He was sobbing now—dry, heaving sobs that stole the air from his lungs.

 ****  



	6. curtain call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue (of sorts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats, you've reached the end. It's a little shorter than the earlier chapters, because it's a epilogue, really, but should tie up most loose ends. Also, thanks to Lex for translating the gratuitous French in this chapter, which, come to think about it, will seem quite random if you haven't read Radiance (Me? Self Promo? Never.)

L rarely slept. But when he did, he might as well have been comatose.

 

Opening his eyes was laborious and draining—so L elected to open his good eye halfway. His room was lit only by the weak streams of light that managed to get in through the cracks in the curtains and doors, but even those hurt his eyes. He rolled over, wincing as he put pressure on the bruise blooming over his eye through to the bottom of his cheek.  

 

He curled into a foetal position, ignoring the stabbing pain shooting through his skull as the bruise on his chin brushed against his knee.

 

All he’d been able to dream about was Light.

 

He seemed to have existed in every single form, the pristine lie that died when Rem gave him up, the child who was so horribly out of his depth, and more than anything, the creature he and Matt had to wrestle and lock into a room like a rabid animal.

 

Watari had knocked on his door a few times, but L hadn’t responded—and L presumed he’d gone away. At first, L had been annoyed at his own immaturity, but he’d managed to justify it to himself, thinking of all the things he’d missed out on as a teenager—like sulking alone in his room.

 

He dimly remembered Matt pressing ice to the side of his face, and collapsing in bed a few minutes later. He had no idea what had caused Light’s outburst, but it was stupid of him to think he could expect any kind of predictability out of Light Yagami.

 

His muscles burned, but L still managed to pull himself out of bed and stumble through into the kitchen. He half expected Watari or Matt to be waiting. Instead, standing on the table, was a red cupcake with a single candle.

L blinked, expecting it to disappear. It seemed stark and horribly out of place—especially against the feeble colors of the room.

 

He picked it up, pulling off the note attached.

 

_Happy Birthday._

 

He recognised Watari’s ornamental, curly handwriting.

 

He’d forgotten completely. He was turning twenty-six today.

 

L sat on the chair and picked up the cake, twirling it around in his fingers and then putting it down. He didn’t have much of an appetite.

 

His mother had baked similar things back in London. His memories of his childhood were dim, aside from the memories of his mother and his childhood home. It had been one of the council estates in Croydon—dingy and dirty and small. He didn’t think of it often, but when he did, an unfamiliar feeling would wash over him.

 

He leaned back in his chair, drinking in the sight of the dismal and grey kitchen around him. He wanted to go back to bed.

 

“You look terrible.” A disembodied voice said.

 

“You can tell from over there?” L quipped, turning to face Matt, who leaned against the doorframe, a small smile playing on his lips. He looked exhausted too—his red hair was greasy and sticking up in odd places, and his skin was an unhealthier pallor than normal—making the freckles littered on his cheeks stick out.

 

“You like to pretend like you don’t give a damn about that kind of thing,” Matt said, “but I know you do.”

 

L sighed, letting his head fall back.

 

“Not many people can read me in the way you do,” he replied quietly, “You’re pretty emotionally intelligent for someone who spends their whole life on some kind of electrical device.”

 

Matt shrugged. “I think that’s why I felt so magnetised to Mello,” he tapped his temple and grinned wolfishly, “He lacks that.”

 

L snorted.

 

“Coffee?” Matt asked, drifting over to the counter and reaching for the coffee machine, “Eight sugars and half a carton of cream, right?”

 

“Not today.” L said tiredly.

 

Matt raised his eyebrows, “You’re sick?”

 

“You could say that.”

 

Matt rolled his eyes and turned back to the coffee machine. “How melodramatic. Black, then?” L nodded slightly.

 

“Thanks.” He murmured, his voice guttural.

 

The kettle whirred, and Matt took the opportunity to slump down across L. He began drumming his fingers on the wooden surface.

 

“You know,” L said with a weak smile, “This may come across as insulting, but you’re really reminding me of my mother.”

 

“Good thing?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

“Well, that’s fine. If someone said I reminded them of my own mother… I’d have to punch them in the face,” Matt laughed darkly, “and then re-evaluate all of my life decisions.”

 

“My mother was good when she decided to be a mother. Which was most of the time, really, up until she didn’t.”

 

“…Do you mind if I ask what happened to her?”

 

“Not really,” L said, “She went to the corner store and never came back.”

 

It was information L hadn’t ever told anyone, but today, he was weary to hide it. It had been eighteen years today, after all.

 

Matt watched him carefully. “I’m sorry.” He added.

 

“Well, I went to Wammy’s, didn’t I? None of us had happy beginnings.”

 

“Your dad?”

 

“Never knew him.”

Matt was quiet for a few moments, “Has anyone else had the privilege of hearing that information?”

“Other than Watari, no. You’ve caught me at a rare emotionally vulnerable moment. Consider yourself lucky.”

 

Matt arched an eyebrow. “I will.” He paused, looking slightly sheepish. “What did you do after that?”

 

L chuckled, “Well, obviously I waited for a while. But I was smart, and once I figured out she wasn’t coming back, I took a pack of chocolate digestives and made myself three jam sandwiches, and set out to face the world.”

 

“And that was that?”

 

“That was that.” L sighed, “Are you going to get that coffee?”

Matt seemed to snap out of a trance, “Oh, yeah, right.” Hurriedly, he got up and began pouring the stuff into cups, filling L’s nose with the comforting, rich smell.

 

“So,” Matt continued, clearing his throat, “After that?”

 

L reached for the mug, wrapping his thin, pale fingers around the sides, not minding when they scorched his fingertips. He realised, looking up, that Matt was hanging on his every word. L was surprised—he’d never considered his past to be of particular interest to anyone but himself.

People didn’t give a damn about him as a person—they only cared about his work. He stared into his drink, watching as the liquid settled and he could see his reflection. Matt was right—he looked awful.

 

“Well, I suppose it was me and those chocolate digestives against the world.”

 

“How long were you in the streets?”

“A week. Give or take.”

 

“And Wammy found you?”

 

“By some miracle.”

 

L took a long sip of his coffee, and immediately spluttering and spat it back out.

 

“God,” he said thickly, “This is vile. How the hell does Light drink it?”

 

Light’s name seemed to resonate. They both quietened.

 

“What are you going to do about him?” Matt asked, his words taut.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“You have to have him executed.”

 

“There are other options,” L snapped.

 

“No, there aren’t. Have you seen yourself?” Matt hissed, his cordiality vaporising, “He’s your arch nemesis, and you’re letting him live. Actually, fuck that, he’s a _mass murderer_ , and you’re letting him live.”

 

“I have my reasons.”

 

“Yes, you do, and they’re shit. Think of all the people he killed. You’re dishonouring their memory by letting him live.”

 

“Killing him achieves nothing.”

 

“It’s not about achieving anything, it’s about justice!”

“Wouldn’t Light say the same thing?”

 

Matt scowled, turning away from L.

 

“He has to stay with us, Matt,” L said in a brittle voice, “They’d kill him. Or torture him. They almost found us in Tianjin… and I can’t—”

 

Matt eyed him, “I’m not here to tell you what to do.” He said gruffly. He licked his lips, “Mello wants to talk to you.”

“Can’t he call me himself?”

 

“You know him. He acts tough—but he cares about your opinion to a truly disproportionate extent.”

 

“Really?” L said dryly, “I hadn’t noticed.”

 

“You’ll talk to him.” Matt’s words weren’t phrased as a question.

 

“Of course.” L hesitated, “…And I’ll deal with Light.”

 

“You’ll ‘deal with him’. How suitably ambiguous.”

 

“I will,” L promised, “He won’t be a threat again.”

 

* * *

 

 

L hated making phone calls.

 

Or at least, phone calls of the more personal variety.

 

Reluctantly, he punched Mello’s current phone number into the cheap, disposable flip phone currently in his possession. (Keeping a phone for too long was far to risky, so he disposed of his phone as often as possible.)

 

It rung a few times, before there was a rustle, and Mello’s voice rang through from the other line.

 

“L.” He said flatly.

 

“Mello.”

 

“Why are you calling?”

 

“Matt told me to.”

 

“Of course he did.” Mello grunted. He sounded weary. “I heard there was an incident with Yagami. What happened?”

 

“I was stupid,” L said, “He attacked me, and I was too shocked to do anything. It’s a good thing Matt was there.”

 

“Or you be dead…?”

 

L paused. “I suppose.”

 

“What did you do about it?”

 

L gulped and grit his teeth.

 

“Light’s been dealt with.” He promised.

 

Mello didn’t respond for a few seconds, and for a moment, L thought he’d hung up.

 

“…So you haven’t killed him.”

 

“No,” L said with a frown. “As I said to Matt, I don’t see the necessity.”

 

“He knows what he is…” Mello’s voice was strained, “And you haven’t killed him?”

 

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Mello.” L replied coldly.

 

There was silence; nothing but the ticking of the clock filled L’s ears. The reception was poor, but through static, L could hear the sound of Mello’s laughter.

 

“I used to worship you,” Mello said in an equally icy tone, “I thought you were like… a superhero. But you’re just…” He laughed again sharply, “You think you’re always right, don’t you? But you don’t know shit. You may be smart L, but you’ll never admit when you’re wrong.”

 

“I never told Mello that I was justice, or a superhero, or anything like that.”

 

“But you never disputed it. It’s lucky Yagami was Kira, wasn’t it? Your initial evidence was always pretty feeble—it was just a hunch, really. Just because you couldn’t stand the idea of someone being as smart as you and not being a psychopath.”

 

“That’s not true—”

 

“Yes. Yes it is.” Mello said, cutting him off. “Good luck, or whatever.” He added stiffly, before hanging up.

 

 _Well_ , L thought, _At least he’d tried._

 

* * *

 

 

L hadn’t seen Light Yagami in one hundred and five days.

 

And still, nothing else seemed to occupy his mind.

 

Paris was beautiful, the food was delicious, and the case was straightforward but interesting. Seven people had been found dead in a church in Marseille, in what was believed to be a cult suicide. However, authorities had reason to believe the cult wasn’t gone yet—and a similar event could occur again in the near future. Nothing had piqued his interest this much since…

 

Since, well, since Light. Or Kira, as he was better known.

 

For the past four months L had been throwing himself into his work, taking almost every case he was offered. He should have been exhausted, but even with as little sleep as he was getting, the majority of the time he felt deliriously energetic—running on only coffee and adrenalin.

 

He was sitting in a café, looking over the beach. It seemed a clichéd scene, but L found it relaxing, and here he could focus on his research. A waitress bustled over, blonde hair piled on her chubby, smiling face.

 

 _“Est-ce que je peux vous servir quelque chose?_ ” (Can I get you something?)

 

 _“Juste un café, s'il vous plaît.”_ L considered, “ _et je reprendrais bien un peu de ceci._ ” (Just another one of these, please. And maybe another one of these.)

 

 _“Vous êtes du coin?_ ” (Are you local?) She asked with a wide smile.

 

 _“Non, je suis ici pour le travail_.”  (No, I’m here on business.) L explained.

 

“ _Vous êtes déjà venu en France avant?_ ” (Have you been to France before?)

 

“ _Oui, quand j'étais plus jeune_.” (Yes, when I was younger.)

 

The waitress piled his empty plates and cups onto the tray, “ _Où?”_ (Where?)

 

“ _Différents endroits_.” (Different places.) He answered vaguely.

 

“ _Oh, je vois. Alors, J'espère que vous apprécierez votre séjour._ ” (Oh, I see. Well, I hope you enjoy your stay.)

 

She disappeared, his plates balanced precariously on her tray. The last few customers, save himself, were now gathering their things, leaving him as the only person left. The place would probably be closing soon, but L couldn’t bring himself to get up.

 

In three hundred-odd days, he’d see Light again.

* * *

 

 

L couldn’t say he missed London. London didn’t seem to have missed him much either—the place was exactly the same as it was when he last left.

 

He didn’t realise his hands were shaking as he unlocked the door. He leaned drunkenly against the table, panting slightly. The room was dark and Light wasn’t here—but he could hear the sound of the shower going in the bathroom.

 

L hadn’t realised how exhausted he was until now.

 

After a few minutes of sitting on the edge of Light’s bed, staring at his hands, the door swung open, and L looked up to see Light’s face for the first time in four hundred and ninety seven days.

 

His face looked thinner, his eyes empty and tired. For the first few weeks, he’d been left in near solitary confinement. Matt had apparently visited him, which L couldn’t understand. Only a year ago he had talked about how he wanted Light dead.

 

“You came back,” Light said, his eyes still wide. Droplets of water slid down his pasty skin and dripped off limp strands of hair.

 

It had been over four hundred and ninety days since Light Yagami had last had the Death Note—meaning he had automatically lost his possession of it, and thus all of his memories.

 

Empty eyes searched L’s—even more desperate than before—to find answers.

 

“I did.” L whispered, ignoring the biting guilt whelming in his chest and knocking the air out of his lungs.

 

* * *

“I missed you,” Light said again his collar. His breath tickled.

 

“I missed you too.” L replied, his voice almost inaudible. Light still looked attractive, but then again, he could pull of almost anything—

whether it was gaunt and tired-looking or healthy and glowing. He didn’t look much like a person anymore, and as much as L wanted to say it was Light’s own fault, he still held part of the blame.

 

“Why am I here, L?”

 

“I’ll explain later.”

 

“Why not now?”

 

“I can’t.”

 

Light rolled away, staring at the ceiling passively. L expected him to argue, but he was quiet. A year ago, L knew that Light would have argued—he would have pushed for more answers than he received.

 

He was a walking wasteland now. He used to be everything, the diabolical and the divine, benevolence and malevolence, chaos and order, and now…

 

There was nothing left.

 

“Are you going to tell me about where you went?” Light asked, his voice near indifferent.

 

“If you want.”

 

“I do.”

 

“Okay, but I’m not sure where I should start...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnnd that's a wrap. A huge thanks to my wonderful beta, Nilah, as well as anyone who commented/left kudos/recommended my fic! It's still mind blowing to me that people I think of as having good taste actually like this. If you hated the ending, please don't yell at me.   
> I am, unfortunately for us all, planning on writing another multi chapter fic after this. It should be longer, I think. Hopefully some of you are interested in the Yakuza.


End file.
